Roaring Silent Sea
by Aveza
Summary: [Calamy fic, undoubtedly a romance] Peter has been friends with Harriet since they were children. But certain events separate them for a time, and when they meet again they realize that the past is too strong to defeat and too precious to let go.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- I own none of Patrick O'Brien's characters or objects mentioned in this story. However, I _do_ own Harriet Neville, her family, and any other character in this story that has never been mentioned in the Aubrey/Maturin series.

* * *

**Roaring Silent Sea**

_Full Summary__- Harriet Neville and Peter Calamy have been friends since their childhood years. But when Harriet must go to finishing school and Peter enlists as a midshipman in His Majesty's Navy, the friendship they have is gradually forgotten. Years later, they meet again, only to discover that the past is too strong to defeat and too precious to let go._

_Chapter One_

_Ships and broken dolls  
As children we would play  
Red roses and a promise  
To come find me and take me away…_

**T**here was a gentle knock on the doors, narrowly being heard by the doorman sitting at a table nearby. As his duty called, he abandoned the book he was rather absorbed in and promptly walked to the entrance of his master's home, a bony hand extended to pry the door open.

From outside those same doors, stood a woman of middle age, dressed elegantly in a dark red redingote, with frills spilling around her throat.

Her head turned sharply around, her eyes meeting the gaze of her young son, who stood beside her, gripping a few of her fingers in his small hand. The hat she had placed on his head had become lop-sided on the carriage ride to the Neville residence, and she bent down in the meantime, straightening the hat and tidying a few stray locks of brown hair behind the boy's ear.

"There, Peter," she smiled, looking at her son's face, her countenance being mirrored in his crystalline blue eyes; eyes that they had shared. "Missus Neville and her daughter will find you a fine growing boy."

"Yes, Ma'am," answered Peter, looking down at his shoes. His mother placed a kiss on his forehead before her name was called by the doorman. The doors had opened and their welcome was waiting.

But Peter had something to say on his mind, and while his mother was greeted by the doorman of the Neville home, he quietly tugged on her sleeve, pulling a bit harder with every unresponsive second that passed.

"Yes, Peter?" she said at last, letting out a sigh. "What is it, my dear?"

"May Hattie come back with us? I want to show her the miniature ship Father gave me." Missus Calamy pressed her lips together, trying to think of a reply that would not hurt the boy, but would manage the same direct understanding as 'no.'

"If her mother allows it, Peter. And you address her as 'Miss Neville,' Peter. Not Hattie," she mildly scolded.

She heard him murmur his usual, 'Yes, Ma'am," and his dull voice told her he was not sincerely sorry, but such was a way with children. She could tell he still wanted a definite answer to his question. "If Missus Neville says that Harriet cannot come, then she will not come, Peter. Am I understood?"

His lips had curved down a bit, faintly showing his disappointment to his mother, but she would not grant every wish that her son conjured. The boy had to learn his limits, but his eyes had the unfortunate ability to contain a great sense of innocence, which fooled many of the adults who did not know him very well.

"Missus Calamy," began the doorman, stepping aside from the main entryway. "You and your son may come in. Missus Neville shall be with you shortly."

With a nod and a few grateful words of appreciation, Missus Calamy stepped into the Neville home, Peter obediently following her example. His eyes wandered briefly over the portraits and other furnishings brightening the foyer. The view was familiar to him, having entered the house several times before, and the only reason he took the time to re-examine the place was to see if the Neville's had added a new painting or other item to their vast collection. Though, he knew well to keep his observations short, or his mother would chastise him for staring.

As the doorman directed them to a small table where they could sit until the arrival of their company, a shrill sound echoed distantly from the floor above. The Calamys' heads bolted upwards, tracing the staircase to the dim hallway where the sound appeared to have reverberated from. "That sounded like Hatt—Miss Neville, Mother," gasped Peter, leaping from his seat. Missus Calamy instantly grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his chair.

"Relax, my son. Miss Neville is all right, I assure you. She has many servants up there who may attend to all her needs." Her eyes looked up again, expecting to hear the crying continuing, but the sound had been subdued and she returned her stare to Peter, who still looked worried over the wail. "You see? She is doing fine. Why, look, here she comes with her mother now," she noted, standing up and motioning Peter to do the same.

"Ah, Missus Calamy!" exclaimed Missus Neville, as quickened her pace down the stairs to greet them. Her daughter sauntered after her, sniffing and with pink-rimmed eyes. She had been weeping, and was too crestfallen to look up and welcome her guests.

The ebullient Missus Neville rushed to visitors welcoming Missus Calamy in the usual custom before laying her brown eyes on the small, but solid figure of Peter. "And you have brought young Mister Calamy with you once again. I am sure you will be able to lighten Harriet's gloomy spirit at the moment."

At the mentioning of 'Mister Calamy,' Harriet stopped dragging her feet down the stairs and raised her sniveling head. Her dark eyes locked immediately on Peter's and her cries of sadness were instantly replaced with a shout of utter joy.

"Peter!" she screamed, running down the stairs with her skinny arms held up in the air.

"Harriet," said her mother, a warning on the tip of her tongue. "Young lady," she yelled, reaching out to grab her daughter before she could latch herself to Peter. "You divest yourself of this unacceptable behavior and act like the lady you have been taught to be."

Harriet ignored the order for a fleeting moment, in the futile hope of getting to Peter before her mother's reproofs pounded on her ears again, but she was caught from behind when she was within an arms reach of him and carried back to a chair, which her mother dropped her in.

She timidly met her mother's glare, her brown eyes looking into the same dark orbs of her mother. Tucking her foot behind the other, she pursed her lips and tried her best to convince her mother that her actions were an honest mistake, although they weren't.

Missus Neville narrowed her eyes harshly on her daughter's curly brown head. Little Harriet had been in a similar position many times before, and yet she had not learned anything from her mother's lectures. "Miss Harriet Abigail Neville," she said sternly through a stiff mouth. "You know better than to behave like that in front of guests. You address Peter as Mister Calamy, and you will calmly approach both he and his mother, curtsy and receive their greetings with a smile and nod. Do I make myself clear, Harriet?"

The young girl bowed her head low and uttered a barely discernable phrase of agreement. She stole a glance at Peter though, who seemed to share her embarrassment with a lightly glowing face. Already the eight-year-old had some plot assembling in her head.

She did well to conceal her evident plan of mischief and completed her mother's orders with the propriety she had so often overlooked. She was never one to disrespect her loving mother and father, or any of her older siblings. Unbecoming conduct, however, always succeeded in coming from her frequent, impromptu ideas. And any improvement in her manners was detected by her mother in disgraceful scanty amounts.

"You have grown into quite a young lady," praised Missus Calamy, causing Harriet to grin broadly. Missus Neville found it necessary to intervene, for her daughter was far from the refined young lady she was expected to be.

"She still has quite a lot of work to finish before she shall ever be considered one in the court's eyes," said Missus Neville, looking at her daughter with her an omnipotent look about her visage. "Young Mister Calamy, on the other hand, contains far more decorum than my daughter does. Perhaps you would be so kind as to teach her the importance of manners while you are here." From the corner of her eye, she saw Harriet's shoulders hunch and her back slouch at the flippant remark, and a smile surfaced her face.

"She broke another one of her dolls this morning, which explains the howls you must have heard when you entered," added Missus Neville, adding to her daughter's humiliation.

Her mother knew well though, to forbid her daughter from being exempt from degradation. She had made the mistake with her firstborn daughter, and now had to suffer the consequences of constant demands and pleas. Her eldest child even had been given the horrible pet name of "the Queen," for her haughty way of displaying herself. Even at home, she executed her reign as eldest sibling, resulting in many bickers amongst the Neville children.

"Not only did she break her doll, Mother," said a voice moving down the stairs. "I caught her in my quarters, looking once again through my journal."

The complaint came from none other than "the Queen" herself, Bridget Claribel Neville.

Upon seeing the Calamys, she curtsied at once and greeted them both with the same grace and style that her youngest sister very much lacked. But her forced introduction into business that was really not of her own moved young Harriet to open her mouth.

"I broke my doll on purpose, your Highness," she stated bitterly. "Her name was Bridget, and I just couldn't see Bridget whole. I _had_ to break her."

"You enjoy making sport of me, don't you, Sister?" hissed a furious Bridget.

"Enough, daughters," commanded Missus Neville. "You are in front of guests, and I believe this has not been the first time they have witnessed an argument between you two. Bridget, you retire to your embroidery for the time being, and Harriet, I am compelled to have you stay in your room until further notice."

Harriet's eyes widened with disbelief. "But Mother—"

"Do not protest, young lady, or your punishment shall be all the more severe. You are dismissed. I have suffered enough embarrassment through both of your discourteous conducts."

Reluctantly, both the girls obeyed and left the company of their mother and guests. Harriet snorted on her way up to her room and she was certain her mother sent another warning look at her. She passed by her brother, Nicholas, along the way and he placed something in her hands. It was the doll she had broken. "I fixed Bridget for you. Although, I can do nothing about Bridget, our sister." That earned a dying giggle from Harriet and she thanked her brother before locking herself in her room.

She made the doll, Bridget, stand upright and then reached over to a basket in her closet and pulled out another doll, one of a young man. "Good day, Miss Bridget Neville," she said in a low voice, moving the male doll closer to the other.

Inside, she laughed and took her voice pitch a bit higher as she mimicked her sister. "Why, hello, Mister Drake. Isn't it a _beautiful_ day?"

"Yes, it is, Miss Neville. But I want to talk to you about some strange news I have heard." Harriet's pleasure could no longer remain within and she bubbled out a laugh.

"Oh, what?" She recalled how she had indeed read the latest entry in her sister's journal and was using that bit of knowledge to create a scene which she was certain would happen if the truth in her sister's book reached the young man she admired so greatly.

"I've been told that you have the deepest of love for me, Bridget and I must tell you…"

"You admire me also!"

"… Actually, I do not. In fact, I could not hate you more. Good bye!"

Harriet dropped the dolls, her contentment clearly displayed on her grinning face. "Now, if only something like that would happen. And if anything like that did happen, well, Queen Bridget would finally be…" She let her voice trail off as she reached for her Bridget doll again, noticing the crack that Nicholas had inexpertly pasted back together. With a tug, the doll fell apart again and Harriet leaned back and examined the pieces. "… broken."

Harriet, or Hattie, as she was known informally to her closest family and friends, was freed from the hackneyed environment of her bedroom after a half hour of thoughts to herself, which was not at all what she did. Her method of releasing any anger or disappointment in her was done through more silly acts involving her dolls, many of which included the awful Queen.

But as soon as her maid opened the door and informed her of her release, the girl dropped all toys in her hands and flew through the door like a crazed bird. "Is Mister Calamy still here?" she asked, although she was already well down the hallway.

"Yes, Miss, he is. He is in—" The maid halted her words, seeing the thin frame of Miss Neville whirling down the staircase and out of ears reach.

Blinded with sheer excitement, she turned swiftly around at the end of the stairs and rammed directly into someone else, causing her to fall backwards, while also making the person she had run into tumble to the ground with an 'oof!.'

Sitting up and placing a hand on her dark curly hair, she peered at the one she had collided into, and his rather small size took him to be no other than her dear comrade. "Peter!" she squealed, grabbing his hand and pulling him up on his feet before he regained his bearings. "Come on! Let's go play in the gardens," she suggested, the fervor in her voice making her words sound more like an order.

"Harriet," began Peter, keeping up with her as she ran down the main hallway to the glass doors leading out onto her family's terrace.

He heard Harriet scowl.

"Oh, Peter," she said. "You call me Hattie. I hate being called Harriet. Now, come on! I want to show you something!"

She stopped her feet and looked back at him, taking hold of his arm and giving him a faint tug. But he kindly separated his arm from hers and nodded to her. "I'll follow," he said simply. She shrugged and skipped the rest of the way to her destination, opening the doors to their veranda and leaving them open for Peter.

As he steadily trailed her lead, he stepped foot onto the gleaming whitewashed floor of their patio and stared out into the gardens, catching a glimpse of Hattie's stockinged leg vanish behind a few bushes. He knew what she was up to then. She expected him to find her, believing that he had not seen where she had run off to.

It was common for her to start out any game with him having to find her. Rarely at times would she be the one to find him, but he was quite fond of the searches she put him through. Only, this time he was not required to search long, because he already knew where her covert spot was.

The boy grinned as he circled the gardens with even steps, not in the least bit in a hurry to find the lost girl. His shoes rustled in the grass as he casually made a turn here and there in what appeared to be a false hope of finding Hattie. His blue eyes though, would regularly glance over at the ring of rose bushes where he saw little Miss Neville dive into, waiting for the perfect and most unexpected moment to jump in there and startle her.

A good space of time had elapsed since he began his search and he was certain that Hattie was now restless and bored in her hiding place, making her entirely unawares to anything that might happen. With the sun beating down on his face, he furtively approached the flowering shrubbery, his lips growing into a wider smile with each step he took.

Then he heard what he thought to be singing. Little Hattie was singing a song while she waited for him, but kept her voice soft in the spacious gardens, knowing that her tiny voice would be blown away by the wind.

She appeared to be singing a traditional song so conveniently appropriate for their game.

_How many kinds of sweet flowers grow,  
In an English country garden?  
I'll tell you now of some that I know,  
Those I miss you'll surely pardon.  
Daffodils, heart's ease and flox,  
Meadowsweet and lady smocks,  
Gentian, lupine and tall hollyhocks,  
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots,  
In an English country garden._

He paused for a moment, waiting for her to complete her song before surprising her and as soon as her voice had died away, he leaned over the bush covering her and shouted, "I've found you!"

Hattie swerved her head around, shrieking with a mix of astonishment and fear. But as soon as she saw Peter leaning over the bush, his eyes smiling for him, she shut her mouth and pouted at him. "Peter!" she growled, standing up and pointing a finger at him. "You mustn't scare me like that."

He laughed and pushed his way through the bristly shrubs and sat on the ground with her. "I knew you were here for a long time. I just waited a while before I let you know." She exhaled noisily at the comment, twitching her small nose in blatant irritation.

"Well, I guess I shouldn't blame you. I would've done the same. Now, look around you," she ordered, shifting in position and tucking her legs beneath her while she sat.

Peter furrowed his thick eyebrows a bit, nonetheless moving his eyes to gaze at the scenery around them. He saw a few flower buds, some pink and red, and also a few fully blossomed roses, their soft petals glowing crimson in the light.

"I planted these," said Hattie proudly.

"They're flowers, Hattie," replied Peter, perhaps not showing the enthusiasm Hattie was demanding from him.

"Yes, they are flowers, Peter," she snorted. "_Roses_."

"I noticed that too. What about them?"

"I planted them. My mother said I needed to do something else other than playing with my dolls so she helped me plant my own little garden. She told me roses are like Bridget though I don't really see the likeness. Bridget doesn't have red hair, nor does she have a velvety touch like the petals, she—"

"Wait, Hattie," Peter mildly interrupted. "You're not looking at it in the way I think your mother did. Bridget is very much like a rose."

"Why? Is it because she's pretty? Because I know roses are very pretty, Peter." Her brown eyes looked at him, confusion beginning to invade her face as her eyebrows wrinkled and her bottom lip began to jut out.

"No, well… yes, I suppose she's pretty, but—"

"How can you say she's pretty, Peter!" yelled a fuming Hattie. Her confusion had now separated into a weak form of jealousy and elevating indignation.

"That's not what I meant," stuttered Peter quickly in reply. "She may be that, but she's also mean, making her a pain, such as those thorns make a rose difficult to handle."

"Oh," was Hattie's meek response, having realized the stupidity of her accusations. "Sorry. But, Mother says I am also a handful. But she said I was a wildflower instead."

"You don't have thorns, Hattie," chuckled Peter.

"No, I don't, but I have plenty of them stuck to me from the Queen."

Silence followed in the respite between them and Peter observed Hattie begin to tear away a rose from the bush. "Peter," she said softly, "My parents have said they might send me to a school to become a lady. I don't want to go if they send me, Peter." Her fingers proceeded to rotate the rose in her hand, while her dark eyes focused on the red petals while she tried to find her words.

"I'm sure you'll be happy there, Hattie," said Peter, trying his best to keep her optimistic about the matter, just in case she really did get sent off to a finishing school.

"No, I won't, Peter. I don't want to leave my home, Peter. Will you—" She cut off, frowning again before holding out the rose to him, smiling. "If I have to leave, Peter, will you come find me? Will you come get me, Peter?"

He sat dumb at the question, his hand reaching for the rose, but never getting to it, for the question had struck him midway. He was eight. He didn't know what she was talking about. What could possibly be so horrible about school? He himself was taking classes at a boys' school in London for a time, and he enjoyed his hours spent there. But Hattie was not like him in every way.

"If I can, Hattie," he managed to say, though the words came out feebly.

"Promise me, Peter," she pleaded. "Promise me you'll come get me and then take me to some far off place where I won't ever have to go back to school again, understand? Then we can play forever and no one will tell us to act like good boys and girls."

He thought for a moment, finding the agreements in the promise very enticing to his boyish mind. But unlike Hattie, he knew when it was right to play and right to behave, but he didn't want to hurt her either.

"All right," he said, avoiding the phrase of, 'I promise,' as it would make the pact more official. Instead, he nodded to her and she took that as an equivalent to the words.

She let out a sigh of relief and got up on her feet. Placing her hands on her hips, she turned her face up towards the sky and let out a laugh before rushing through the bushes once again and into the freedom of the gardens, with Peter going after her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

_Promised words exchanged  
Against Fate it will be tried  
Seas will separate us  
And our past has crumbled and died…_

**F**our years passed, and during the span of time, Peter and Harriet maintained their friendship. Both had grown, one more than the other in a sense, but still kept the spirit that strengthened their bond. Harriet had gained a few inches, though no more, for she had gotten severely ill when she was ten and was required to lie in bed for months. Her health was afterwards closely watched and she was put on a specific diet in order to help her resume full strength, for the doctor had mentioned that in a few years, she would hit the era of adolescence and it was recommended that she be at stable wellbeing before the years arrived.

Peter, however, had grown in height as well, surpassing the head of his companion by two inches or so, but not in breadth. But the boy was still young and he had not been thoroughly acquainted with what adolescence brings both physically and mentally. Although he was wise in the school sense, he still had much to learn about the world, and he figured what better way to understand the world than by seeing it by sea.

During the time Harriet spent ill in her bed, Peter visited her often. He had excelled in his studies at the school he was attending and his mother had found him to be around the proper age to enlist as a midshipman in the Service. His father was already a loyal member of the Royal Navy and encouraged Peter to join. He had mentioned it often to Hattie, who honestly had no comment on the possibility of him leaving to become a Navy man. She presumed that he would stay in London and move on to college and educate himself with law or business, but Peter had a desire for his own adventures. And those waited for him on the measureless blue span of ocean.

By the time Harriet and Peter had reached their twelfth year, their friendship was still as strong as ever, and constantly fortified with numerous stays in each other's company. The games and pranks the two had performed in past years came less often, as Harriet's once colorful and imaginative mind had begun to turn grey. The girl had discovered a bit of startling news when she turned eleven and had not dared say a word to Peter until she found the precise moment.

Nevertheless, the two would share a quick game here and there, sometimes of wit, which Harriet had always lost, and more often of light activity, which Peter did not find much to his liking. The duo had even ventured far enough out into the English countryside to find a low platform by the sea, rather like a cliff of perhaps thirty feet high, on which they could stand on and watch the waves of the cobalt blue ocean lap against the jagged, straight wall of the rock.

Both of them enjoyed the spot and had unofficially declared it another sign of their friendship. Peter loved the place for it brought him close to sea, and Harriet relished the height of the platform, sometimes daring Peter to dive into the water from the top, and he would dare her back, and she'd cower. She did, however, promise to herself that she would jump from the cliff and into the water one fine summer day when she was older and Peter was forced to say that he'd be there to witness it, just to ensure that little Harriet did not go back on her word.

The boy had grown used to calling her Hattie, though he remembered his manners when addressing her with adults, which was still something Hattie needed to improve on. She still had the tendency to let fly all her emotions instead of containing them inside and her mother had tired of consistently scolding her in public.

But then there came a day when all of that would change. Peter was at the highest peak of happiness in his life and had jumped into a carriage straight for Hattie's home. He had received the greatest bit of news ever to reach his ears and next to family, Hattie was the first person he had to tell.

As soon as he was let into the house, he abandoned all protocol, whizzing past a shocked Mister and Missus Neville and running up the stairs, calling Harriet.

"Peter?" answered Harriet, emerging from the den on the bottom floor, her face puckered with bewilderment. She thought she heard Peter yelling around her house and she never imagined him doing such a thing in a million years.

"Hattie?" shouted Peter from above, the thud of his boots sounding down the stairs once again, and he spotted her at the end of the stairwell, her parents behind her and looking at him with the most bemused faces. "Hattie!" he repeated, reaching her and embracing her so tightly that her frail body was lifted off the ground.

"Peter! What is going on?" she squealed, lightly beating on his shoulders to put her down. "My parents are—"

"Forgive me, Mister and Missus Neville," said Peter hastily. He gently set Hattie on the ground again, seeing that her pale face was now bright crimson. "Come, Hattie," he said, taking her hand and leading her out the door.

"To where, Peter?" asked the stupefied girl, having difficulty keeping up with him.

"To the cliff by the sea," he said with a breath as he moved his feet to a faster tempo.

"But Peter, I—"

"None of that now, please, Hattie. You will be overjoyed when you hear what I have to say to you."

And so she followed him, never taking notice of the clouds forming in the sky or the soreness rising in her throat. She was not feeling very well that morning from the beginning.

When they had reached the green patch of grass on top their cliff, Hattie immediately collapsed to the ground, looking at Peter with eyes slightly dimmed with a coat of wetness. "What is it, Peter?" she asked, her throat dry from the run.

He looked back at her and smiled a smile that seemed to have come from the purest of gratitude and delight. "I've been taken aboard a ship, Hattie," he said, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his. "My parents have paid me a spot as midshipman on the H.M.S—" Hattie suddenly grabbed his forearms and stared hard at him, her face tight, but breaking within.

"What?" she whispered in utter disbelief.

"I'm now an officer of His Majesty's Navy, Hattie. I am being taken on board a ship captained by one of my father's good friends. I'll be able to learn the sea's ways and navigation and—"

"Peter, you can't leave!" cried Hattie, standing up and facing him, her tiny hands clenching and her eyes misting.

The boy had not anticipated her reaction to be as such and the bliss he was feeling but a few seconds before was now drained from his face, letting a cloud of sudden hurt cover his face. She had most rudely disrupted his speech of absolute elation, and looked upon this great event as a course of bad luck. "Why, Hattie? I thought you'd be happy for me." Despite the gentleness of his words, his eyes were chilling with anger.

The girl lowered her argument and backed away from Peter, her shoulders dropping and her grayish face taking the likeness of smoothly carved stone. "Because you _can't_ leave, Peter," she said, growing frustrated and scrunching her fingers back into fists. "You can't. You can't."

"What reason is there that keeps me from leaving, Hattie? I've told you about this for months now and you act as if you did not see it coming!"

"Because I never thought you'd actually leave!" she shouted, and distantly, a low rumble came from the dark sky. "You can't leave me, Peter!"

He turned around with a moan, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at the waves of the sea as they gradually worsened with temper. Everything he had done was for her. He had visited _her_ nearly everyday when she had taken ill and followed her lead, nearly did everything to make her happy, and still she could not be content. His lips tightened at the thought of how little time she had spent to please him, and yet, through it all they had stayed friends, but for what?

"You still haven't given me a solid reason, Hattie," he said, turning his head to look back at her, and she stood on the ground like a puppet hanging from its strings, as if she could fall at any moment. "All you speak about is yourself, what will make _you_ happy. What about me, Hattie? This is something I've looked forward to for years now. You know how important it is fo—"

Harriet silenced him with a thrust of her arms in the air and her mouth spitting out shouts instead of words. "You want my reason, Peter? Then I shall give it to you!" She took a breath and felt something wet drip from her eye. It wasn't a tear. Water had fallen from the sky. "I am being sent to finishing school. I'll be gone within a fortnight, Peter. And you know how I've never wanted to go to such a place."

"It is a school, Hattie. There is nothing to fear in school. You will be in good hands, I promise you."

"You don't understand, you foolish boy!" she screamed. "You made a promise to me when we were eight, Peter. Don't you remember? You said you'd take me away if I ever had to leave my home and will you now go back on your word, Peter? Will you leave me now?"

"That was a silly thing to promise from the beginning, Hattie. You were eight, you didn't know better," insisted Peter, unable to sympathize with her fear of leaving home and family behind to become the lady she never wanted to be.

Something changed in the girl's mind, and her lips remained shut for a long time, the rain beginning to fall faster from the sky, sputtering onto their faces in weak drops of bitterness. From above the sky thundered quietly, and from below the sea groaned with malcontent, the waves gradually beating against the cliff side with more force.

Peter placed his hands on his hat, to make sure it didn't fall off if the storm grew worse. He watched Hattie stand still through the curtain of raindrops and grew slightly worried over her standing out there, exposed to the rain. He was about to go to her and suggest they leave, but she at last spoke to him.

"Very well," she said softly, her voice saturated with grief. "Go."

The following day, Hattie was unwell again. She had contracted a fever and sore throat, and was ordered to stay in bed until better. Peter could not visit her as often as he would have liked, for he was occupied preparing for his departure which would be exactly one week before Hattie had to leave for finishing school.

He did manage to fit in a short appointment with her on his last day in London and he took a seat in a chair at her bedside and said a few last things to her. He told her he would write to her and had been given the address to her finishing school, which was in Wiltshire. All Hattie found necessary to respond to him was through a series of simple nods, for her voice was failing, and she frankly did not want to talk to him. She had let him go to his voyage, but that did not mean she forgave him for breaking his promise to her.

Her family, save for her mother, who stayed behind to keep her company, went off the next day to see the ship off, and Nicholas was kind enough to return home with an accurate tale of what happened at the harbor. His story brought little joy to Harriet though, who was too tired in the mind to feel joy and too sick to care. She understood very well, however, that she and Peter would never be the same friends they had been before. Things were different now.

By the week of her own departure, Hattie had recovered well from her bout with fever and was slowly packing her possessions, trying to delay every part of her leave in as many ways possible. She even found it necessary to behave properly both at home and in public to somehow convince her parents that she did not need to be 'finished.' But their decision had been final since the day she found out a year ago.

On a bright and cool fall day, Hattie left her home and took the long carriage ride with her mother to Wiltshire, where she was introduced to the building and people who would mold her into an entirely different young woman.

* * *

_Peter Miles Calamy  
HMS Redoubt  
On Patrol off the Coast of France  
November 17, 1800_

_Miss Harriet Abigail Neville  
The Godolphin School for Girls  
Salisbury, Wiltshire, England_

_Dear Hattie,_

_My hope is that this letter finds you well in your new abode in Salisbury. I have heard of the Godolphin school, and it is exalted as one of the finest finishing schools in England. I do hope that you accommodate well to your new surroundings, despite your adamant defense against your clear dislike for it._

_Life however, on a ship, has certainly proved as a challenge. The _Redoubt_ is a fifth rate ship of His Majesty's Navy, holds thirty-two guns, and congregated on the ship are two hundred and seventy five men, five of which, including me, are midshipmen. The other lads are all fairly young and new at the position, and though there are only five of us on the ship, the midshipmen's berth is still small and confined. The Senior Midshipman is a young man named Abraham Kersey, and he seems a decent fellow, as he will be the leader of the midshipmen. We've all bonded quite well on our voyage so far. As you may tell from the date, we have been out to sea for about a month now._

_If we were to meet, you would find me fairly intelligent on maritime affairs. Ask me what the name of a sail, a mast, a line, a yard, a deck, a cabin, and I will be able to answer them all correctly. I have also learned my way through the rigging and have a jolly time racing up there with the other lads. Needless to say, I have also looked forward to my lessons in navigation and seamanship. But I am probably boring you with such events. You probably want to hear of my adventures._

_The _Redoubt _was assigned to locate a French privateer—a frigate—hiding in the English Channel and preying on small merchant vessels. But a few weeks out to sea, we spotted her, and immediately set course to 'taking her a prize' as was the phrase used by the captain. By then, I was fairly educated in the ways of the sea, and capable of manning my gun division as I was taught, with order and speed. In the face of battle though, I found myself rather unprepared for the chaos and death that ensues ship fire._

_We came alongside the French ship, running out our guns and firing, having the weather gauge to aid our cause. The French frigate was no bigger than ours, and so the battle was at no certain victory for some while, until a man from Mr. Kersey's division knocked down the topmast of the French mizzen, which hurdled down onto their starboard side, crashing on their deck and killing a good deal of their men._

_At that moment, we were commanded to board, and I had to lead my division to fight. There weren't many men left to kill when we leapt on deck, but we fought until the ship raised her colors. You may regret to hear that I shot and killed a man, Hattie, and I was in an oddity of grief and misunderstanding on the whole thing. The only thing assured was that I had ended life, Hattie. I still do not know what to think of it now._

_The ship was captured though, and her cargo was laden with wines, perfumes, and other exotic goods that are sure to be worth a decent sum on the market. For the capture of the ship, all of us were guaranteed a share of the prize, and so I shall be earning my first pay, Hattie. I know it may not seem much now, concerning my age, but it does give me a sense of dignity._

_If the captain is correct, we may be docking in Portsmouth for some repairs, which will most likely take a few days, perhaps a few weeks, giving me an opportunity to visit you in your new school. I hope that you are advancing in your studies and doing well, and if I cannot visit you when we dock, then I wish you all the best until next we meet._

_Your loyal friend,_

_Peter Miles Calamy_

* * *

_Miss Harriet Abigail Neville  
The Godolphin School for Girls  
Salisbury, Wiltshire, England  
January 9, 1801_

_Midshipman Peter Miles Calamy  
On board the HMS Redoubt  
Off the Coast of France_

_Dear Peter,_

_Excuse the delay of this letter, as I did not receive it until the eighth of January. I should have told you before you left that students at Godolphin are not allowed to receive any messages from outsiders, other than family and suitors. As you well know, I am too young to have one, and therefore can only receive mail directly through my family. However, Mistress Hopkins is at leave attending to personal matters (it is said that her father is ill), and shall be gone from the school premises until February. The woman she left in charge is her niece, who attended school there, but is not at all as harsh as Mistress._

_It was on the day she upheld her aunt's duties (which was yesterday) did she call me down to her office and show me the letter you sent. I perceived that Mistress, upon seeing it delivered, locked it away in a drawer full of other prohibited letters and away from my knowledge. But kind Missus Burke handed it to me and I was immediately thrilled at your letter, Peter._

_As you can probably assume, I am most proud of you, Peter. I cannot imagine you gallantly stepping onboard a terrifying enemy ship, a sword and pistol in your hands, and shooting down Frenchmen. Of course, I _can_imagine you doing such a thing, but it doesn't come without some difficulty. Though, I am happy that you are growing into a young man and being exposed to the truths of the world on your prized little ship, while I am stuck in a rather stuffy school learning how to sew, sing and dance._

_If you are interested in how life is there for me (which I doubt you are), I can summarize my activities with one word: monotonous. We rise every morning, usually between the hours of six and seven, and prepare ourselves for the day. I usually wake early to get to the large privies shared for each pair of rooms, which, if I may add, house five girls in each room._

_The lasses I am stuck living with are a mixed sort. Some are above me, literally, as in both money and age, and some are at level with me (though with the dullest of minds) and then there are those below, who are just younger than me. I have made a few friends, well… perhaps few is not the word. I was greatly accepted by the "highest" division of the social elite, my sister's legacy having been known here. They are all quite eager to hear my opinion on things and I am surprised and rather annoyed at their desire to follow my every whim. Do not these girls have the ability to create their own thoughts?_

_Ah, yes, I can picture you laughing at me for my ridiculous and slightly exaggerated observations, Peter, but they are, for the most part, honest. But let me move on._

_After dressing in our traditional school uniforms (which are different in color, according to season. Winter is white and blue), we file down from our dormitories to the dining hall, in which we are served a light breakfast. Then, we proceed to our classes. My first is etiquette, taught by Mistress, but in her absence, taught by Missus Burke. Then, I am off to dancing lessons with a very charismatic Irishman by the name of Mister Redmund O'Cleirigh. He is very charming and is but sixteen years of age and the girls all consider dancing to be their favorite class. You must think I am joking, Peter, for telling you our dance teacher is but still a boy, but I kid not. His father is the _true_ teacher, but his son, who was named after him, just teaches it better. In truth, the younger Mister O'Cleirigh attends the Godolphin school for boys which is a simple walk from our building. We often visit him, but I know such things bore you, so I shall speak no further about them._

_After dancing, I take my courses of language: Latin and French, which I find rather uninteresting. Afterwards is singing, then arithmetic, writing, and lastly embroidery. I have improved in all classes subtly, but at least I am making improvement. I also must learn to ride a horse, a subject called equestrian, and I am very unsteady on those large, sleek beasts. I feel as if I will slip off and break my neck whenever I mount, and I have difficulty with that as well. I cannot even do simple jumps and so my fear has pushed me to the back of the pack in those lessons, which is an embarrassment, for most of my friends are onto trotting and galloping while I totter with a simple walk._

_But horses, dancing, and all other things here do not match the great times I shared with you, Peter. If this letter reaches you within a month's time, I must warn you not to send any more letters to me, for Mistress will have returned and gone back to hiding your letters from me. You may send them instead to my family if you wish and when I visit them for Easter celebration, I can have the freedom of reading your letters._

_I look forward to your reply, whenever it may be. I have successfully endured life here at Godolphin, but I still wish with all my heart that you could come and take me away from here, Peter. But it is stupid hoping for that, as you are out at sea and hundreds of miles away. Farewell for the moment._

_Yours truly,_

_Hattie_

* * *

_Peter Miles Calamy  
On Board the Esther  
At Sea in the Western Mediterranean  
April 5, 1801_

_Miss Harriet Abigail Neville  
15 Guildford Place  
London, England_

_Dear Hattie,_

_I would have written sooner to you, but I did not receive your reply until mid March. It is good to know that you are doing well in your new school, and I am positive that you are well on your way to becoming a lady (though I know you will make me regret my words, for being a lady has always been the farthest thing from your mind)._

_We did indeed return to Portsmouth to finish repairs on the _Redoubt_, but our services were apparently needed elsewhere, and we could not stay in Portsmouth for as long as I had hoped. I was taken aboard the_Esther_, a brig-of-war in His Majesty's Navy. I was saddened at moving down to an even smaller vessel, with but fourteen guns and a sorry crew of about twenty-five. There are a few sailors who seem to belong on the sea, but the rest are indisputably landlubbers brought on board from the press gangs._

_Nonetheless, I carry out my duty._

_As of now, we are in the Mediterranean, patrolling for any suspicious behavior or for any illegal cargo—more pirates, in general. I do hope to get to some action soon, for we have done nothing but sail. I still do my usual activities during the day. I stand watch, take my meals, do my educational work for a few hours, then go back up for watch, practice my navigating… and the like. It has all become rather routine, and I am beginning to feel like you in your finishing school, doing the same things everyday with nothing to look forward to._

_I write this letter during my leisure time, which has suddenly been cut short. Word just came to my ears that we've spotted a suspicious looking vessel one point off the larboard beam. But I must be confusing you with my nautical speak. I will write more as soon as action begins again, but at the moment, life is rather bland._

_Your loyal friend,_

_P.M. Calamy_

* * *

_Miss Harriet Abigail Neville  
Ferndale Estate  
Sailisbury, Wiltshire, England  
May 17, 1801_

_Peter Miles Calamy  
The HMS Esther  
Western Mediterranean Sea_

_Dear Peter,_

_When I visited home for Easter, your letter had arrived remarkably fast. A speedy two weeks. That is a lucky time, my friend. As you may tell from the address, I am staying at Ferndale Estate with a few friends of mine. Young Mister Redmund O'Cleirigh—do you remember him? He is my dancing instructor and also a good friend. But anyway, he invited me and some of my friends to his family's estate nearby._

_Now, I know what you are thinking, suspicious young boy, but Red (that is what I call him) is a good and fine gentleman. Besides, we are accompanied by one of the girls' parents, so we are safely chaperoned._

_But since last I wrote to you, I have done a lot better at school. I find dancing as my favorite class, not because of the teacher, but because I am actually good at it. Red congratulated me on my light and small feet. He even taught the whole class with me as his partner! The girls afterwards were very certain that he admires me, but I find it doubtful. I am but twelve years old, Calamy. I am not looking for any of the sort._

_Your monotony at sea I am deeply sorry for. It must be dreadfully boring to go through the same routine, and yes, it could very well compare to life here at Godolphin, but since I am spending the weekend at Red's estate, the view has been slightly better. Yesterday morning we all went riding, and it was beautiful, Peter! I had a bit of trouble with my horse, but I had some help from the stable hands and from Red to keep my horse under control. I did, however, fall into a puddle of mud on the ride back, and the girls would not stop laughing at me for hours, even after I had bathed and gotten the dirt off me._

_We did have a picnic later that day, and everything seemed so wonderful there, Peter. I wish you could have joined us. The girls though, only wanted to sit around and talk, but I'd rather be moving. Red thought the same and he danced with me on the grass. And we were barefoot! I was laughing for such a length of time at the unconformity, but I did have a splendid time._

_Red has invited me to go back there during the weekend of my birthday, but I had already gained permission from Mistress to leave school for a week to visit my family in London. Perhaps you can make it back to land by my birthday, Peter. It would not be the same without you. Fair winds, my friend._

_Sincerely,_

_Hattie_

She looked up from the words she had just scribbled onto yellow parchment. The phrase, "_It would not be the same without you,_" swam in her head, trying to fit itself as honestly in her mind, but the more she thought about it, the more she understood her true feelings. She did not care if Peter came back or not. Her new company was making her happy as ever. She was fine without him.

The candle on the writing desk was coming low, and the flame danced weakly in the still air of the room. It was dark, save for the soft golden glow touching her face and illuminating her dark eyes. The letter was left open to dry, the curved, connected letters standing open to her, tempting her to rewrite it and put forth her genuine feelings. She had even written "sincerely" as her closing farewell, and she knew it was the largest lie on the paper, and it ate at her like acid. She had never once thought of lying to Peter. She trusted him with everything, and now… she could care less.

Her small nose twitched and her eyelids blinked rapidly a few times before she expelled a sigh and took the edges of the paper in her fingers, folding them stiffly to fit in the envelope.

"Harriet?" asked a voice. It came in simultaneous to the soft crick of a door hinge and she turned her head to the entrance of the room, finding Red coming through, with a candle in his hand free hand.

"I'm here, Red," she said. With a pivot of his head, they locked glances and he smiled at her through the light emitted from the candle.

"What are you doing? We were wondering where you went." He made way towards her, setting his candle on the mantel piece above the unlit fireplace beside her desk.

"I've just been writing," she stated simply, looking back to the folded piece of paper being ignored on the desk.

"It's awfully dark in here. Are you sure you don't want to go out for an evening walk?" His voice had a hint of worry towards her, and their gazes met again, and in the light she saw his dark red hair glimmer like the fire on the candles.

"A walk would do me fine. Are Olivia and Beattie coming along too?" She got up from her seat, leaving the letter where it lay and faced him. He offered his arm to her and with a timorous smile, she looped her arm through his and placed her free hand gently on the side of his shoulder.

"They declined, if that is all right with you," said Red.

"It is. I need the evening air. Lead the way, Mister O'Cleirigh." The young man grinned and together, they walked out of the room, leaving the dying candle on the desk to burn down into nothingness.

* * *

_Peter Miles Calamy  
On Board the Esther  
On the Outer Ridge of the Caribbean Sea  
August 25, 1801_

_Miss Harriet Abigail Neville  
15 Guildford Place  
London, England_

_Dear Hattie,_

_It took a large expanse of time for me to receive your letter. Apparently it moved from one ship to the other and did not reach mine until two months later. I know your birthday was on the tenth of June, and I send my extremely belated birthday wishes to you. You were older than me for a month, before my own birthday arrived in early July, but I am sure that yours was celebrated with much love and merriment._

_We're now leaving the Caribbean Sea, after sailing for about two weeks around its waters. We caught a French sloop and sank her with too much ease, thus creating little amusement for me and the other lads. Our pay has gone another notch up, as the sloop was filled with expensive cargo. Again, not that the pay matters to me. I just long for more adventure._

_I am most pleased that you are relating well to others at Godolphin. Your dancing teacher seems a fine young man, though I am still a bit mistrusting of you visiting his family's home. But I know you are a smart girl and will not do anything that you will regret later._

_There is a small rumor on the ship that we will be going to England and I may request for leave on land for a time, just to visit my family and you. Nearly a year at sea makes me realize how sick I am for home, so I am hoping that I will get to step foot on solid earth for more than a day and to sleep in a bed rather than a hammock._

_There is a knock on my door, and one of the marines has just informed me that I am needed with the captain. Excuse the brevity of this letter, Hattie. I do wish to write more to you soon._

_Yours truly,_

_Peter_

* * *

_Miss Harriet Neville  
The Godolphin School for Girls  
Salisbury, Wiltshire, England  
November 8, 1801_

_Mister Peter Miles Calamy  
On Board the Esther  
Outer Ridge of Caribbean Sea_

_Dear Peter,_

_I feel guilty as I write to you, for I received your letter months ago, but I have become so occupied with my life at school that I forgot about it, though I assure you that I shall not forget anymore._

_At the moment, I am doing well, and can you believe it has been almost a year since we went our separate ways. Both of our lives are changing quite rapidly, I would imagine. I myself have undergone some slight physical changes and I know you are growing into a man yourself._

_But it is to my regret that I must inform you that my family is moving closer to Salisbury, in order to keep close to me. And so, it would be best for you, Peter, to refrain from writing to me for a time, as my family will be busy and sending letters to my school is prohibited. I will tell them to write to you as soon as they are settled in their new home._

_And so, until then, Peter. I hope all is well with you. Oh yes, and to address your worry over Mister O'Cleirigh, there is no need. He is a very good young man and a good friend of mine. Good bye, Peter._

_Cordially,_

_Harriet_

Hattie dropped the quill in her hands, leaving the leftover ink on the tip make a few dots on the letter. She _did_ feel guilty while writing it, but it was not because she received it and did not reply so soon. What she felt guilty about was that she received it early, ignored it, and was now replying to it with a lie.

Her family was not moving to Salisbury at all.

She did not _want_ anymore letters from him. None at all.

But she had little reason to abstain from writing to him. All he had done was write to her, tell her of his adventures and to connect them together even if they were oceans apart, but she didn't _want_ to hear from Peter. At first, she was delighted to have his letters and she'd press them to her chest after reading them and bubble with laughter and giggles all day, but then after she met Red, she began to forget, and she grew less interested in everything he had to say. Not to mention that he had not come to visit her at all—had not come to take her away…

He didn't succeed in the mission she assigned him. Red did.

He took her away from the school atmosphere as often as he could. He'd hold dance lessons outside so that she could get fresh air. She visited his estate every weekend and went out to picnics with him and walks by a small stream and ridden horseback across the great hilly land.

What did Peter do? He was at sea, becoming a better seaman, forgetting his promise to her. Forgetting…

She bit her lip and hurriedly folded the paper after the ink had dried and stuffed it into an envelope and sealed it with hot wax. "I'm sorry, Peter," she whispered to herself. "I cannot do this anymore. I must move on, for I am actually content here, and your letters remind me of a broken promise that continues to break my heart. Goodbye, sweet friend."

When the wax had dried and cooled, she brought the paper to her lips and she kissed it, knowing it would be the last she'd send to Peter. But she did it for the better. There was no use in trying to play with a toy that was already broken, just as there was no point in renewing a friendship that had long since decayed.

One could say young Miss Harriet was growing bitter while growing sweeter at the same time. She was gradually being fitted into the tight mold of a refined and stunning young woman, but her heart had become intolerable to the past. She closed it shut to things she once knew, embracing far too openly the new things of the present and forgetting how the past had got her to where she was now. Her mind found pleasure in every part of her new life, and she found the deepest of sadness and anger through her childhood memories, for every time she recalled them, all she could remember was a broken promise and a boy who had vanished beyond the horizon and out of her life's view.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

_Bittersweet blossom  
Three Years gone and passed  
Unreturned letters and a sadness  
From a broken promise and broken glass_

**T**he ground rumbled with the echoing thuds of hooves, and clumps of dirt were dug up from the ground and thrown upward as two glistening horses galloped across the fresh green field. The coats of the beasts grew damp with sweat, but their destination was nearing, and their riders spurred them on with fierce encouragement. They were running to a white house.

A smile was on the person in the lead, revealed only to the person trailing behind as he turned his head. His low ponytail bounced on his neck as he gained speed and his eyes shone brightly in the sunlight beaming from the cloudless blue sky. "Are you doing well back there?" he called, squinting at the horse and rider behind him.

The rider behind, dressed in a black riding habit, frowned but replied that she was doing fine, giving a harder nudge into the side of her steed with her riding boot. She had accepted her defeat and was not too dismayed at her loss. Horseback riding was not even something she enjoyed very often. She'd rather walk, but then she would have arrived weeks later to her destination of that was the path she chose.

With a high-pitched whinny, the horse in front reared back and came to a halt, pausing directly before a gate that led into what appeared to be some gardens. "Is this it?" he asked, knowing that his companion was within hearing distance.

She pulled on the reins of her horse, and stopped beside him and put a straight hand to her brow, using it as a visor from the sun burning her face. "Yes. The gate to the gardens. It is always left open."

"Shall we go in?"

"Of course, Red. I did not bring you here just to look at it," she laughed. She glanced at him from atop her horse and he shook his head, grinning.

Easily, he dismounted, swinging his leg backwards over the back of the horse and dropped to the ground. Moving around his companion's horse, he stopped at its left side and raised his arms up to the young woman sitting on the saddle, her back straight and her hands resting in her lap. She still held onto the reins.

"Harriet, darling," he said, "Prepared to dismount?" She nodded and slipped her foot out of the stirrups and slid into the arms reached out to her, placing her hands on his shoulders, in case he lost balance, leaving her face hovering above his.

"I've been away from home for a long time, Red," she confessed quietly, smiling at his green eyes.

"Best not worry about that, dear Harriet," he said, lifting her off and setting her safely on the ground. "I'm sure you're family will understand." But the young woman found none of the assurance he had shown in his voice, facing him with hooded eyes. She had avoided her home and family for three years, while she drifted in the splendors of the present in a city and world far away.

Red took quick note of her discomforting guilt, and wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her close to him, and kissing her forehead gently. And in his arms did she at last give him a nod of approval, and the young couple walked a steady pace to through the gate of the gardens and to the back entrance of the Neville home.

A tea cup rattled on its corresponding dish, the brittle china clanking together as if whatever was holding them was shaking. And that wasn't far from the truth.

Sitting on a cushioned sofa before a gleaming mahogany coffee table, was a woman of middle-age, her brown hair streaked lightly with a few strands of grey, and her once smooth pasty face beginning to wrinkle and go dry, the youth being passed on to the young woman who sat opposite her. It was in the older woman's hands in which the chattering tea cup sat, and she kept her dark eyes on the floor, unable to speak to the lady with her, who seemed but a little girl in her eyes.

Harriet stared at her mother with wide, concerned eyes, her lips tightly closed and the tea growing cold in the cup that she had not taken a sip from. She knew she had made false promises to her family, as she did to a boy she could barely remember. She promised them she would be there to attend Christmas, but she spent it at Ferndale Estate. She wrote to them, saying that her only wish was for home, but that was not true. Everything she had told them lately was a lie, a false claim, and not worthy of recognition. Missus Neville did not think she would lose much when she sent her daughter to finishing school, but it came to the mother's attention that she had lost trust in her daughter; in fact, she could hardly fit a personality to the woman who sat before her. Who was she?

"How… How long have you known Mister O'Cleirigh, daughter?" asked Missus Neville, settling her shaking hands and placing her tea cup onto the table.

"For four years, Mother," replied Harriet tonelessly. "But we have been courting for about a year. Since I turned sixteen." Missus Neville sucked in a breath and stood up, closing her eyes as if she was trying too hard to imagine what Harriet had just told her. Her daughter was taking too much advantage of her freedom, running off with a man four years her senior, a young man experienced in toying with young women's minds, a man liable to break her daughter's heart.

"Do you find it reasonable to be going through this courting business so quickly, Hattie?" asked Missus Neville, opening her eyes to her daughter and revealing a glaze of wetness across her dark orbs.

"Of course, Mother. I've known Red for a very long time. You need not be worried. Do you not trust me to make my own decisions?" _I don't_, thought Missus Neville, but Harriet was her daughter. She was the one who helped in the creation of her daughter's fiery spirit, and she was the one who made the decision to send her daughter away, thus demolishing the same spirit she created.

"Just be careful, daughter. You are still so young," answered the mother. She walked out of the entryway to the room, calling for Harriet to follow her. And, being molded into society's definition of a fine woman and aspiring wife-to-be, Harriet followed her mother down the wide hallway, their shoes tapping on the tile.

They entered the library, and Missus Neville moved promptly to a desk that sat in the middle of the room, bending over and opening one of the drawers. Harriet moved to the front of the desk, watching her mother with her hands folded neatly in front of her, and her tiny feet stuck side by side each other, waiting patiently for whatever her mother wished to show her. "These are letters sent to you, Harriet," said her mother solemnly.

"From who?" asked the girl, leaning forward to inspect the withered papers.

"I believe you should very well, know, Harriet, as the young man who sent these is none other than your best friend." Harriet stayed her hands from reaching for the letters, leaving her outstretched arm suspended in mid-air, as she stared at her mother.

"I have no best friend," she said sharply. "No true one save for Red, who has never broken a promise to me."

"Hattie, I have read these letters, from Mister Calamy. His only wish now is to see how you are fairing, daughter. Why do you rob him of that opportunity?"

"Because he does not deserve it!" shrilled Harriet, spinning on her heal and stalking off back to the hallway. "And do not call me Hattie! 'Tis a silly name that belongs only to a silly girl."

Missus Neville left the letters on the surface of the desk, but her eyes remained on the open doorway which her daughter had exited from so angrily. She did not know what to think of this new woman who had come to her doors so unexpectedly. It was as if spirited, funny little Harriet had vanished without a trace.

And yet, despite the young woman's outburst of frustration and loathing for the young man named Peter Calamy, she re-entered the library later that night when all had gone to bed. And she took the letters in her hands and read each word, tracing her finger over the smoothly connected letters, over names, and over farewells. And when she had reached the conclusion of the last letter, she folded them with shaking thin hands, never succeeding in folding them back, for the letters had fallen from her fingers like leaves in autumn, the rustling suppressed by a sob that escaped her, accompanied by tears that dampened the dry, cracking paper. A candle came low, melting wax in a hot, sticky puddle at its base, the wick coming short and burning out in a hiss of smoke.

Harriet woke up in the library the next morning, her head resting on her forearm which was lying on the desk. Her eyes were dry and she rubbed them vigorously to rouse her more quickly, but she only opened her tired eyes to the letters from Peter which she had carelessly left sprawled all over the desk.

Every letter from him made her writhe with guilt, for in every letter Peter had apologized to her… not for the promise he broke, but just for nothing. The boy was blaming himself for things he never did, and what made her ache all the more was that he still wrote to her, even though she never returned his letters. She did not know where he was now. The last letter in the collection was dated six months ago, and he could have been halfway across the world.

_Perhaps he has given up hope in writing to me, which was what he very well should have done years ago,_ thought Harriet, getting up wearily from the desk chair and walking out of the door. She was certain she looked horrible and wanted to go up to her room and take a long bath.

As she traveled up the stairs, she passed by a maid and ordered her to prepare hot water for her, and with that last order, she scurried to her bedroom door, twisted the knob and shut it behind her, encompassing herself in her childhood bedroom and bittersweet memories of her past.

When she had bathed, dressed and eaten breakfast, she reunited with Red in her family's gardens, where the couple took a walk together through the rose bushes and other flower beds. They walked at the same pace, moving their feet at the same intervals and happened to glance at each other's faces at precisely the same time. And from afar, Missus and Mister Neville watched their growing daughter with saddening approval for the match, for it did indeed appear as if young Mister O'Cleirigh loved Harriet very much. And Harriet adored Mister O'Cleirigh with all her heart.

The couple passed by the ring of rose bushes that she had helped plant when she was a child and the thin smile on Harriet's face dropped heavily into a frown. Her roses were dying. No one had tended to them for a long time, or someone had ceased to care about them. "Poor things," said Red, reaching down and breaking off one of the roses. He held the thorny stem between two of his fingers, leaning his head towards Harriet who laid her eyes directly on the wilting flower.

"A travesty," she whispered. "This was my rose garden. But I've failed to take care of it, to love it as I should have. I got carried away with everything I was given and I forgot everything that held meaning. That rose is a victim of my malice." Without knowing it, she had tightened her arm around Red's and pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to dam the tears flooding in her eyes. All she could think of was Peter, and his letters and her mother and her blanched, tired face.

"Harriet?" said Red, dropping the flower and gently reaching under her chin to pull her face to his. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied, refusing to look at him. "I'm just tired. I've been away from home for a very long time."

"You can make things new then; improve on past things." He smiled and caressed her cheek, the sunlight reflecting in his green eyes. Harriet managed a smile, and their faces leaned forward as their lips met in a smooth, fleeting kiss. "You've reached a point in your life, Harriet, when you can begin again. Things may die," he began, gesturing towards the gloomy rose garden, "but they will always be remembered."

Harriet took his advice with caution, questioning whether it would really make her happy, but she decided that taking the chance could be for the better. Her lips once again curved into a smile as she mildly pulled on Red's arm to take him to another part of the gardens. "How about a song?" she suggested, leaning into him and resting the side of her head on his shoulder again as they walked.

"If that would please you," he replied, meeting her gaze.

"I used to sing this as a girl. It can also be dance. How about one of those as well?" He laughed and almost instantly, the pair effortlessly got into a dancing position, their hands knowing each other very well, and their feet accustomed to each other's company.

Counting the beat in their heads, Harriet opened her mouth and sang, as they twirled around in the lively greenery.

Their feet skipped to a slow stop, and with her voice silenced, she arranged her feet, one behind the other, and curtsied low while Red placed a hand on his abdomen, with the other folded behind his back and bowed as Harriet's brown head ducked over.

"That was lovely," said Red, as the two rose back into standing poses. Without even having to ask her, she looped her arm through his again and with a faint eagerness, pulled him onward through the gardens.

"Yes, it was. I used to play so often in these gardens with my friend, Peter." She paused when she uttered the name. It was the first time she had _ever_ said the name aloud in her family's home since three years ago. The name seemed but a faceless shadow drifting in her mind, and she found it odd that she was talking about him.

"You must have had a wonderful childhood, Harriet, to be able to walk out here and feel freedom many young children are forbidden to experience."

"Freedom?" echoed Harriet, furrowing her eyebrows. "I was overwhelmed by freedom to the point where it became an ill, instead of a gift. Godolphin did me much better than I thought it would." Red did not respond. He wondered how she took for granted this liberty he had never felt for such an extensive part of his life. His incentives, or rather, his father's incentives, were to have him become a lawyer, a man of the law, therefore pushing knowledge into his head.

With a blink of an eye, his musings were over, and he remembered the beautiful young woman who walked beside him, holding his arm with thin, feeble hands. She was smaller than most young ladies. She had not grown much since he first met her when she was twelve, perhaps three inches, and no more. Her skin was pale, almost with a grayish tone about it, and her brown eyes were dulled with a sadness he could not see. But once in a while, a spark would flicker with the spirit of a little girl in her eyes, only to be gone just as fast, like the flame of a dying candle.

Harriet had never been the perfect image of a woman. Her frame was thin, almost wasted. At Godolphin, when she and the other lasses would visit the school for boys, many a young man observed her as a plain girl at first sight, but when they saw her do anything she loved, they were fast to rethink their judgment. Only, Red first met her as her spirited and blissful self, and so he was gradually drawn to her. She contained the freedom he had always wanted to taste, and to the benefit of society, Harriet had learned well when it was appropriate to be wild and when to be conventional.

"Shall we go in, Harriet?" asked Red. With a shake of her head, Harriet looked up at him and tried to sort the words in her head.

"All right," she sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

_Bells ringing on sea and land  
A novel soul awaiting the day  
When he could finally take her hand  
And at last, take her away…_

**T**he footsteps of several men tapped and thudded across the recently polished deck of His Majesty's ship, the _Surprise_. Orders were being shouted vociferously from officers, and they got the sailors to pick up a quicker pace to make ready the ship for weighing anchor and docking in the approaching port.

Pacing to and fro by the larboard rail were two young officers, one a midshipman, and the other the acting Third Lieutenant of the crew. And even as they approached land, the two remained obedient to their duties, focused on getting the men bustling while they themselves wasted their excitement in an array of shouted orders. Both of them knew that returning to land was a blessing.

"Lively, lads," said the lieutenant, nodding his head at one of the sailors, who's face was turned to the approaching port instead of the rope he should have been pulling.

"You really should be easier on them, Peter," said the midshipman, looking at his comrade over his shoulder. "We are all eager to step foot on land." Peter didn't respond because he wasn't entirely sure if he felt the same way the men did. Certainly, he was excited to be home, but he was nervous as well. He had requested a leave on land for a few months to visit Hattie, and he hadn't seen her in five years.

"I suppose we are, Will," said Peter at last, still remaining in his proper position of hands folded behind his back and eyes at level with the horizon. "But that doesn't mean we should ignore our duties."

Will Blakeney had no answer for Peter. Since Peter was promoted to lieutenant, Will had noticed a larger change in his friend. He spoke with more authority and wasted little time on the childish activities some of the other boys would get involved in. It was as if Peter Calamy was _too_ attentive to his responsibilities that he had no time for the freedom limited to his ending childhood. But that could have been accounted for in their age difference. Peter was seventeen and he was twelve. He figured he'd lose some touch with his own childishness by the time he reached that age.

"I suppose my family back home will wonder about this," said Will, bending his head down towards his disfigured right arm. Peter brought his eyes off the horizon and looked down at Will, his face seemingly unchanged by the comment.

"I'm sure they will," said Peter. "But it's just another of those things required of the Service." The duo smiled and Peter had realized he had drifted off from his obligations for a while and quickly reminded himself inwardly what he was supposed to be doing.

The docks of Portsmouth became clearer and the men found it harder to remain loyal to their jobs. Several had already climbed up the ratlines and stood on the yardarms of the masts looking out at land and home.

Will and Peter had gradually pushed themselves towards the bow of the ship, although their posts were at the quarterdeck, and stared at the nearing houses. A few seamen passed by them with rushed salutes, and they heard one of them say, "The first thing I'll do once I get on land is kiss my wife." The boys, although they made no comment, smirked at the remark.

"Anything to look forward to on land, Peter?" asked Will.

Peter narrowed his blue eyes on the port. "I'm not sure, Will. I don't know what to expect."

Within fifteen minutes, the ship had docked in the port of the city and the men were gathering the cargo and filing down the gangplank and onto the solid wood of the dock parked beside them to distribute the goods. But it wasn't long until the Admiral and a few of his officers from the inner city had boarded the docked ship and spent a rather long luncheon with the captain in his cabin. And during that time, none of the men were allowed to leave. Naval discipline still reigned high.

Though, when at last the Admiral and his followers dispersed, Captain Aubrey and his own band of officers gave the men their release from the ship and the freedom of their homes, and how eager so many of the sailors were to leap off the gangplank and run to a loved one waiting for them.

The officers waited until all men were off the ship before they themselves stepped off, their belongings being packed onto separate carriages according to their destinations. Peter and Will, along with some of the other midshipmen, were all invited by the Admiral to a celebration honoring their safe return home. Afterwards, they would be free to return to their homes and families until the call of the sea had returned to them.

Following Captain Aubrey and Lieutenant Pullings and Mowett, the young lads approached a carriage awaiting them with pacified exhilaration. Midshipmen Williamson and Boyle occasionally ribbed each other with an elbow accompanied with a soft snicker, and Will and Calamy had the unfortunate position of feeling misplaced. They were still young, yet they were not entirely themselves in either the officers' or the other midshipmen's company.

"Familiar scene, lads?" asked Aubrey, as they hopped into a carriage heading for the Admiral's residence.

"Yes, sir," said Peter. "How long will we be staying in Portsmouth, sir?" Aubrey squinted his eyes, questioning in his head why the lieutenant was so eager to be informed of the time.

"It all depends on your decisions, Mister Calamy, unless you'd rather have it otherwise," replied Aubrey. Peter cast his look down, finding the question he had asked, stupid.

"No, sir," he said. "I just have family in London that I am very eager to reunite with," he confessed.

"Well, things can always be rearranged, Mister Calamy," stated Aubrey. "You should by all means stay with your family. Mister Blakeney, Boyle, and Williamson as well."

The boys didn't say anything for two reasons. The carriage had come to a halt, and secondly, neither of them dared to out-speak against the captain again.

The hour was late in the day—early evening—and by the lights and merry noises coming faintly from the Admiral's home, the lads understood that their homecoming celebration was already in act. Following their captain, they walked up the path to the front doors, in which Aubrey simply opened and walked right through, the house most likely being one he had visited often in his past voyages home. The boys followed afterwards, entering an atmosphere full of the scent of food, candles and ladies' perfume, with the sweet sound of laughter and music entwined.

"They were expecting you, sir," observed Will. Aubrey laughed heartily and motioned the boys to follow him to the main hallway leading into the celebration.

"Yes, they did, Mister Blakeney, yet they began before I even arrived." The boys chuckled and soon found themselves in a brightly lit ballroom, where couples twirled in unison on the gleaming floor. "Make yourselves at home, gentlemen," said Aubrey, before he excused himself from their company, leaving them to gaze at the festivity with awed faces.

"I see a lot of familiar faces," said Will. "Several friends of my father are here." He pointed with his left hand. "Anyone familiar to you?"

Peter briefly scanned over the faces in the large hall, but saw no one in particular. Perhaps his parents preferred a more private welcome, but if friends of Will's family were there, why couldn't any of his own friends be? He decided not to look at the faces of those dancing, as they would be moving too fast for him to examine, but as a couple twirled by, he thought he saw the flash of an old face, but it was gone too soon.

"Peter?" repeated Will, nudging his friend with his elbow. The lieutenant was immediately drawn out of his reverie.

"Sorry, Will. I just thought I saw someone. An old friend of mine."

"Go see him… or her then. That's why you're here."

Peter had absorbed Will's advice, but did not put it into effect right away. He contented himself for the time being by getting a drink, and then following Will as the young midshipman paid his greetings to a family friend, who was most shocked to see him with only half an arm on his right side. Through it all, Peter continued to look back at the dancers, trying to see if that glimpse of a face would pop up again and it did. And after getting a better look at the face that was beginning to haunt him, he realized who it belonged to.

_Harriet._

After a few dances, he saw her and her partner leave the dance floor and move to the refreshment table, which was when he kindly excused himself from Will's company and made way to her. Five years apart and they were reunited in the same building, entirely unaware of each other's presence. Or at least, Harriet was.

She smiled as her partner handed her a glass of wine which she took a small sip from. "I've noticed Captain Aubrey enter, Harriet," said her partner. "Do you mind if I speak with him for just a moment?" Harriet shook her head and smiled.

"Not at all, Red. You brought me to Portsmouth for this specific event and I shall not hinder you from any of your whims. Go ahead." Red grinned and took her hand and kissed it before reluctantly leaving her by herself. She watched him leave, feeling fluttery inside, but she figured it could have been because of the drink.

Peter was but a few feet behind her, watching her with the keenest of interest, wondering who the man she was with was, and why she was in Portsmouth from the beginning. Wasn't she supposed to be in finishing school in Salisbury? He decided to end his wondering and get his answers directly through her, and he approached her with a weakening confidence. "E-Excuse me, Miss," he said, catching her attention from behind. She turned her head around, her face somewhat disinterested in the call and faced him, her countenance adopting the impassive look which had been taught to her in school.

With hooded eyes and a straight, stiff mouth she looked at him. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" The young man before her was tall and lean, and by his uniform, she knew he was a man of the Navy and therefore was worked hard by the tasks demanded on a man-of-war.

Smiling at her were two limpid blue eyes clearer than the waters of the Caribbean Sea, and though vaguely blushing, a smirk of pure delight was spread across his face, and she peered at him, finding his face familiar, but she refused to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Would you…" He argued with himself over the right words to say. For some reason, he found the need to display himself in a perfect, refined way. "Would you mind sharing one dance with me, my lady?" He knew well enough to bow his head a bit, extending his hand, palm up, in a restrained manner.

Her eyes glanced at his hand swiftly before she met his gaze, and she noticed his eyes look down as soon as she caught his glance. She understood from that quick movement that her visitor was new to the dancing game.

A part of her wanted to dance with him, to show him the ropes and to flaunt her excellence all the better, but that was selfish of her, and a lady could never be selfish. And yet, there was something about him that had bitterness gather around her mouth and she was finding herself wanting to yell at him, to scold him. Only, she didn't know why.

Calamy waited in agony at her delayed response. He never thought that she would think through such a simple question so thoroughly. She could have said yes or no. It was as simple as that, but she had to keep him waiting, which was very much like her to do so. She had not changed in that way.

"A dance, you said?"

"If it rests well with you, Miss," replied Peter, looking at her warily. He tipped his hat off to her, expecting a rejection and therefore preparing his farewell. Her hesitance to give him a verified answer was an immediate sign that she did not want anything to do with him, but a great desire in him was growing to find out why.

She didn't say anything and turned her head around, taking another sip from her wineglass and focusing her eyes on the skipping feet dancing around the shining floor. Peter watched her, jumping to the conclusion that she was disinterested in his offer, but to his surprise, she turned back around and laid a hand on his left shoulder.

"I'm sure one more would not hurt, Midshipman," she said. She had learned about officer's uniforms from the father of an old friend. The senior Mister Calamy had told her many stories of nautical life before he had passed away.

She set her wineglass on a table nearby and curtsied minimally before him. He reacted with the normal bow and she extended her thin hand to him, which he took with slightly trembling fingers. As soon as he touched the coolness of her hand, he remembered her. The feeling of their hands joining together again sent so many memories rushing into his head, and he wondered how she could not sense the same thing. They had danced often in the past, usually uncoordinated and full of fault in the Neville gardens, and now here they were dancing again, in a grand, illuminated ballroom.

Harriet recognized the hand immediately and her heart raced in her chest but her body tensed as she tried to protect herself from the one thing she had avoided for so many years. But she masked her fear very well, retaining the same bored expression on her face while Peter led her to the floor.

"Have we met before, Midshipman?" she asked, turning sharply to him with a harsher look on her face.

"Well, Miss, I—" A couple brushed passed him rather rudely, having been eccentric with the alcohol and severed his words in half.

"Ah, Midshipman, no need to answer my questions. I think out loud. Come. Let us get into position before we ruin the dance."  
Unlike before, it was Harriet who had to lead her partner to the dance floor, weaving her way through the assembling couples with a chin held high in the air and a back that was ramrod straight. Peter discovered that he was staring at her, which was most impolite of him, to look at a woman like that, and so he reminded himself to remain calm and to speak with her later when she had retired from the dance floor and perhaps to a quieter environment.

The hums and few screeches coming from the orchestra signaled the time was approaching, and Harriet placed herself before Peter, laying an arm gingerly over his left shoulder while laying her free hand in his rather weakly and with little care. She seemed disappointed with his company, and he took note of that with a hidden frown.

The dance was a gavotte, quick and upbeat; one of Harriet's favorite routines. She loved moving her feet quickly while twirling about and joining hands with her partner, and despite her disagreeable company with her for this particular dance, she still did her best, moving her small, light feet across the dance floor with the treasured spirit of a little girl. Peter found some difficulty keeping up with her. He had not danced for some while. He had learned, and at times, for example, in the Caribbean, attended balls with the captain and other officers with the local governor and he had danced many times there. But this was different. His feet were trying very hard to be uncooperative and his brain was scolding himself simultaneously for viewing such a dance as different from all others. Was he not just dancing with a simple girl? And more so, his old friend? What reason was there for him to feel such a great weight of... nervousness?

"Keep the distance between our feet by at least a foot, Midshipman," muttered an aggravated Harriet. She moved her foot quickly away after seeing that she almost stepped on Peter's toe. He mumbled what seemed to be a yes, and Harriet only grew more irritated with him as the dance commenced.

But the more she treated him coldly, the more she helped Peter regain his bearings. He noticed her bitterness almost right away and to show her he would have none of it, his nervousness blended into the determination to focus on the dance and the steps, instead of the young woman skipping so effortlessly right in front of him.

The melody died to an end, and Harriet did not hesitate to part her hand from Peter's and with a rushed curtsy and a terse farewell, she flew off on a different path, returning to the man Peter had seen her dance with several times and smiling only when she was reunited with her escort.

He felt again the same mix of emotions he experienced as he set foot on land. He was happy to see her, but growing bitter at her own hostility. He didn't think he deserved any of the treatment she was giving him, and the better part of him wanted to question why. Only, Harriet was not about to speak to him again any time soon. He'd have to demand answers, and he had much exposure to issuing orders to know how to get the information he needed.

For the mean time, he did the best he could to entertain himself with the rest of the night's festivities. He'd dance with a few other ladies and he chatted with a few other officers, and he drank until he felt his face glowing red from the warm feeling in him; a feeling that only masked the coldness that swept through him from a tempest by the name of Harriet.

And as the candles lying around, illuminating the brilliant ballroom, melted low, and the scent of food began to grow so thick in the air that it became nauseating to already full-stomachs, the guests began to gradually wave back out to the ocean of sweet, fresh night air. Unfortunately for Peter, he decided to linger until Harriet had lost most of her possible choices for talk, and her escort had become engrossed in a conversation with Captain Jack Aubrey. The once bustling ballroom was nearly empty, with but a few people pacing around here and there, probably guests that were staying in the Admiral's household. Harriet and her escort must have been one of them.

Will had gotten permission to leave to visit his family the following morning for a few days, and Peter saw him depart to stay with a family friend a few moments ago, deeply saddened at his friend's exit. He wandered around here and there, idly keeping an eye on Harriet, but she never took note of his presence again.

Though, what he saw was entirely different from what Harriet herself was seeing. She knew very well that he was watching her, and she did not know if she felt annoyed or flattered by the act. Her initial thought was that it was nice of him to be looking out for her, as he had always done when they were ignorant children, but the thought was disturbed by the all-too-powerful memory of a broken promise, and she grimaced at that. But she was more careful with her eyes, and whenever he wasn't looking at her, she'd look at him, examining his profile with intense curiosity. Was he the same Peter who had left her so many years ago?

She admitted that she wanted to speak with him, but she thought it best that she never exchange words with him again. It would remind her too well of the times they shared until the little mirror of memories was shattered into broken glass. All because of a shaky promise.

But when Red and Aubrey had left to the parlor to discuss things with the Admiral and his few remaining male guests, Harriet and Peter were the only people left in the ballroom, and the questions he had for her became inevitable to her observations. "You say what you want, Peter, for this may be the only time I'll be willing to listen," she said, looking at him standing a few yards away from her, an empty wine glass in his hands.

He loss all fear of her and neared her calmly, and unlike before, his eyes were not smiling for him. They were sharpened with a dormant sullenness. "Five years has it been, Hattie?" he began. She turned her head away.

"Yes. And a long five years it has been, Mister Calamy. Though, it must have gone awfully fast for you, being entertained with your adventures and all." He sensed the sarcasm in her voice and followed after her, not liking the same game of chase she always put him through.

"Hattie, I don't under—"

"Firstly, Peter, you call me Miss Neville or Harriet. Hattie is a silly name for a silly girl, and that part of my life has passed. And secondly, you say you don't understand? Because you _don't_ and you never shall."

"Abandon your contempt for just one moment, Hattie," said Peter. "I seek only for your understanding, but you will not give it to me."

"Because you don't deserve it." She turned around and looked him in the eye, questioning her own self as to why she had to hurt him as soon as he came home, but she figured it was the only way to set things right once and for all. "I honestly _am_ glad that you are home and that you have visited me, but I have a new life now, Peter. In a year I will be presented in front of the court and I will officially be a lady of nobility. What you have to place before my feet means nothing anymore. So I ask that you please stop sending me your letters. Stop putting memories in my head that I don't want to recollect anymore."

She cast her glance away, but Peter could not have her leave it at that. There had to be something else he could do to mend their broken seams. "Hattie, I implore you to listen to me, please," he said, walking in step with her and taking her thin hand. It was cold. "I have just one last question." She did not answer, and so he found it safe to continue. "Why did you lie to me?"

She looked up at him, her face heavy with distress and timidly she spoke, knowing the truth had to be told. "First, tell me why you left me, Peter."

"I… I never meant to, Hattie," was the young man's hollow reply. "I didn't leave because I wanted to get away from you."

"And now you've come back," said Hattie weakly, looking at him with dark, saddened eyes. "Perhaps you've come to take me away, to fulfill that promise to me. But it's too late, Peter. You can't anymore." She took her hand away from his and walked towards the parlor where her escort was waiting for her.

And in a voice that reverberated in the vacant ballroom, she said, "I'm engaged."


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

_Charmed by a charmer,  
But captivated by a world unseen.  
With a young man to tell the story  
Of how the sea fulfilled his dreams…_

**P**eter did not comprehend. The phrase would not process itself as honest truth in his mind but the firmness in her voice had succeeded in convincing him that she was right. It _was_ too late for him to take her away, as she had already moved out of arm's reach.

"Hattie," said Peter, his voice following her like a breeze cherished but unheeded. She sent him no reply, walking into the dim parlor.

And she left him to stand stiff and dumb at the emptiness of her unsaid words, but his feet felt the desperate need to move forward. Only, they were bolted to the floor with nails of iron guilt, and he wondered how she had always seemed to impress the same effect unto him; the feeling of regret when he had always believed that he had done nothing to be ashamed of.

Surprisingly, she turned around, her white face still fixed in its rigid mold of insensitivity and for a short time, she stared at him without speaking a word, and he looked right back at her, waiting for what she had to say. "I am leaving for London tomorrow. You are welcome to join me if you intend on visiting your family. Good night, Mister Calamy." Then she broke her glance and turned back around, joining her fiancé in the parlor.

The following morning, Harriet was up before dawn. She took a light breakfast, got dressed, and then strolled out of the doors of the Admiral's home, walking once more in the misty atmosphere of the lively city of Portsmouth.

She passed a few hills, the morning fog hovering around her feet in a cool sea of grey, and she pulled tightly at her sleeves, the chill of a new day sending a common shiver up her spine. To walk in the mornings had become a habit of hers ever since she attended boarding school. The time alone allowed her to reflect and perhaps anticipate the events of the new day, and therefore counter any of those situations shall they trouble her at all. And that particular bleak sunrise called her to think about Peter.

Her feet had brought her far from the Admiral's residence, but she knew the path back, and by the time she'd return to prepare for her trip back to London, the sun would have blasted away the fog and freed her from the grey sea she enjoyed going to every morning.

The dampness in the air clung to her curled hair, weighing it down and keeping it drooping with an invisible burden. Her lips had taken on a bluish hue, and her eyes gleamed with a thin cover of wetness, either attributed by the dank air or her own disposable shame. She did not know the reason behind it, but she did not necessarily need to know. She was out there to reflect, not to cry.

Peter had looked so different to her. The only thing she figured that was kept constant in his appearance was his eyes, the same smiling blue eyes. Everything else about him had changed. He had grown taller, his face had become more defined and chiseled, and his hands had gone rough from a many years' work on the savageness of a warship. But he was the same Peter through and through, containing the same kindness, misunderstanding, yet commitment to the foolish young girl he had been so strangely fond of. And Hattie began to wonder why he even liked her as a friend at all.

As far as she knew, their friendship was no more. His letters sent with no purpose, no reason, were not even replied to, and the one person he did not expect at all to see on his return home had welcomed him with adverse greetings. Why was the boy foolish enough to continue with his plan? It was obviously going to fail.

Without a doubt the center of her heart belonged to Red. He granted her everything she dreamed. He knew her, understood her, would never abandon her. Why would she ever think of leaving him behind for more than a day? She loved the man. But her choice had been final. She had already told Red to prepare her things and that they'd rendezvous at his estate in Salisbury a good three weeks from her day of departure. The three weeks of which, the young man needed direly. His studies had been neglected for a few months and the three weeks time would do him well to bring himself up to date. He wanted a stable job as a lawyer before marrying Harriet.

In addition, the young woman was not even recognized by the Court. Her day of admittance as a true lady in English society required her to present herself before the Queen of England. And such a task was not an easy thing to learn. She could not afford one mistake during her examination, or she'd ruin her career as a noblewoman for the rest of her life. In fact, that was all she had been preparing to do in finishing school. Both her parents and Red's thought it wise that the two wed after Red had become a successful lawyer and she had been accepted as a Court lady by way of the Queen, and she had agreed.

But now she began to wonder if any of those things would happen because now things were different. Now, Peter was there for her again, but she had professed to have an easier life with him gone. She knew Peter would join her on the small trip back to London. He always took her word and did whatever she said. And although an admiring characteristic it was for him, it sometimes troubled Hattie to know that her dear friend would go to whatever lengths necessary to fulfill some sign of friendship.

And she would still be angry afterwards.

After spending minutes sitting on the cool ground, listening to the fading sounds of night as day stretched out its golden fingers, Harriet eventually left her post there and walked back to the house, her mind unsteady and her heart giving an uneven beat.

As she walked through the front door and into the foyer, she removed her cloak, with a maid immediately rushing to her to retrieve the discarded piece of apparel. From the level above, she could hear the servants talking at a low murmur as they made ready her things for the journey to London. She knew Peter would not require such preparation as most of his belongings still remained packed in their sea chests, and she deduced that the young naval officer was probably still sleeping, as was her fiancé.

Her feet wandered back to her bedroom, following the unfamiliar hallways of the Admiral's home, and even on such an foreign route, some things stayed the same. As she walked to her room, Peter had just stepped out of his, causing her to stop but a few steps from where he stood.

Silently, their eyes met and Harriet was fast to keep her eyes focused elsewhere before getting angry with him again. Peter smiled halfheartedly towards her, knowing all too well how to respond to her nature. He knew when she was angry, and so learned to give her her space. He knew when she was sad, and so was prompted to comfort her. He knew when she was happy, and so did his best to keep her at that state for as long as possible.

"Good morning," he said, nodding at her. She was surprised to see him awake so early, fully dressed and equipped to leave.

"Good morning," she returned insipidly with a sigh following after. "Neither Captain Aubrey nor any of the other midshipmen staying here are awake yet, Peter. You can take your breakfast downstairs if you request it." Peter mirrored the dull look in her eyes and with a casual pivot of his head he commenced to walk down the stairs.

"Thank you," he added, well on his way down, and Harriet felt all the more bitter at his offhand behavior.

She did her best to rid him from her mind, and so busied herself by collaborating with the servants in packing. Yet, in the back of her stubborn head, she could not help but want to regain the praise and admiration Peter had so often showed her as a boy. His pride in her was what made her feel needed, and with him caring as less as she did, her thoughts began to wander to find a familiar thing in an unknown path.

A hand helped her into the carriage, but never released her to her seat. "Are you certain you will be fine?" asked Red, looking at her earnestly. His hand was still firmly nailed to hers and her best response was but a simple smile to her beloved.

"I assure you, Red, I will reach London safely. My maid travels with me, so I have company. Do not fret." She gave his hand a tight squeeze before letting go of him, but before she fully entered the carriage, she leaned back out and kissed him briefly before shutting the door and locking herself in the dark space of the coach.

Her maid, Susan, sat beside her, her hands folded in her lap and her legs tucked one behind the other. Peter sat opposite them on the other side of the coach. He found it rather strange to find Hattie share affection with another man. He figured it was not jealousy he felt. His eyes were just not accustomed to her giving away kisses. But with a shake of the head, Peter rid himself of the thoughts, as they were improper and downright awkward from the beginning.

The sound of a whip cracking came, followed by the soft whinny of the horses, and with a rocky jolt, the carriage was off and rolled down the street with creaking wheels. Harriet leaned back in her seat and focused her eyes on the shrinking figures of her fiancé and other guests in the Admiral's home. Red's frame stood still in the distance, and he remained in such a position until the carriage rounded a corner and he was out of her view.

Her fingers were positioned stiffly around the slender frame of a needle, weaving the point in and out of an unfinished embroidery piece. Her eyes had remained cast down since her departure from Portsmouth, and not once did she look up to exchange a few words with her guest, Midshipman Calamy, and if she ever spoke, it would be soft enough to elude the keen hearing of her guest.

"What do you think, Susan?" asked Harriet, withdrawing her needle one more time from the cloth stretched over the wooden embroidery circle. Her maid leaned over and gazed at the piece and nodded with approval.

"It's lovely, Miss. I believe your mother will like your work very much." Harriet returned a forced grin at her maid and instead of resuming her sewing, tossed it aside with a small chuckle.

"She would not. She is only interested in the matters concerning my presentation to the Court, not my useless embroidery."

Peter felt highly discontent with his somewhat demanded muteness. He knew if he spoke that Harriet would ignore him, and so he figured what was the use in speaking? He had thought of the possibility of talking to her maid, but Harriet's threatening glare would have only compelled him to remove himself from any enjoyable conversation there as well. And yet, as he sat opposite the two women, questions were blossoming in his head like weeds. They were coming up from everywhere and anywhere, and they had no place to go to be answered.

With the mentioning of Missus Neville, Peter wondered how the rest of Harriet's family had faired over these years. He assumed that "the Queen" Bridget was already married to her "King," and he presumed that Nicholas was probably in college learning some lessons in law. But what of Mister and Missus Neville? How had they reacted to this sudden transformation of their daughter from a wild flower to whirling tempest?

He had become so absorbed by his own thoughts that he had almost missed hearing the one opportunity Harriet gave him to speak. "Do you remember…" Her voice died and she finished her thought with a sigh and shake of the head.

"Remember what?" he questioned, leaning forward in his seat. He was not going to let their one conversation go to waste.

"Nothing, Mr. Calamy. The thought slipped away from my mind." She laughed lightly at that, having not always been the girl with the greatest of memory. She had forgotten many times her sister's or brother's birthdays whenever she was away, and she had forgotten a lot about Peter's letters to her.

"Perhaps I could help you remember," he replied, smiling a bit with her. "We have hours ahead of us before we reach London. We have the time to figure things out."

"Well, what if I do not want to figure things out, Mr. Calamy? What then?" she challenged, raising her eyebrows at him with false omniscience.

"No one is forcing you to do so, Hattie. There's no need to feel threatened by me." Her eyes shot up and she stared hard at him, her lower jaw stiffening at the openly frank, and rather falsely observed, remark.

"And what makes you think that, Peter?" she shouted. "Just because I refuse to talk to you makes me regard you as a threat?"

"Well, why _won't_ you talk to me?" he asked honestly, with such innocence as she had remembered in their childhood days. The young and childish look in his eyes only justified his purity and candor all the more.

"Because…" Her mind was searching frantically for an answer to follow, and she wanted an answer that did not portray her as some simpleton. "Because how easy is it to readjust to something new and unanticipated?" she responded. _And strange and frighteningly appealing_, she added to herself. "Tell me, Peter."

The young man seemed rather prepared for her counter, looking at her without a hint of frustration in his face. He was relaxed and at ease at the question, which meant that he knew _exactly_ how to answer it.

"It's not, I must agree with that. However, it is if you already know what you are dealing with. That way, you know how to react."

With a suppressed scowl and abrupt fold of her arms, she tensed her body and pushed herself into the carriage seat with the rather juvenile and pointless assumption that the act would make her become one with the seat and therefore not prone to being further mocked by Peter's refined way of speaking.

"Must you make me feel so illiterate, Midshipman?" growled she, frowning at the empty green sea of hills flowing outside her window.

"It is never my intent to," replied Peter, appearing a bit upset at her accusation. "Why would I ever do that to you, Hattie?" Her tongue was quicker than her mind and she snapped back as soon as the opportunity came into existence.

"If you had the nerve to leave me, then it is evident that you are not afraid to insult me either." The young man found it unnecessary to reply, as his companion had turned her face away from him and returned to her embroidery, pulling at the string with a greater amount of force than before. She had shut her mind, eyes and ears away from him again and she promised to herself that she would never start another conversation with him, for fear of becoming too intrigued by the stories and explanations he had yet to tell.

The hours passed slowly, and by noon, they were still on the road, and Harriet found herself sick of looking at the repeating scenery, sewing useless flowers on a piece of cloth and exchanging meaningless words with her maid. Without a doubt she knew that Peter felt the same way she did, and she was considering breaking her promise to herself and talking to him.

The carriage was but a few hours away from the next town, which would be the place they would take their midday meal, but with the magnitude of lethargy in time, Harriet thought it better if they take their meal now. They had traveled enough to do so.

"Mr. Henney," said Harriet, shifting in her seat and speaking to the carriage driver from the little window behind her. "I would like to stop here for an hour or so." The middle aged man did not turn his head to reply to her. His face continued to stare at the road, his hands loosely grasping the reins. "Mr. Henney, did you not hear me? I wish to stop."

"The town is but an hour away, Miss Neville. We shall be there shortly," said Mr. Henney confidently.

He had been in association with her family for years, and so he knew how the young woman acted. Before, he found her rather fussy and demanding, but as she grew into a woman, her demands grew less, and her spirit to enforce them weakened. Finishing school had forced her to obey any man's command.

Harriet turned away from the window and looked at her maid. "Are you hungry, Susan?" she asked.

"Not at all, Miss. I can wait for another hour," replied the servant. Harriet shook her head.

"I have taken many trips to London from Manchester, Salisbury, and Portsmouth, Susan. I know the nearest town is not an hour away. It is more like two, and I know you have not eaten since before dawn. We will take a brief respite and then resume our journey as soon as possible." She pivoted her head back to the window and shouted to Mr. Henney. "Mr. Henney, I demand you stop this carriage this instant. One hour or two, I will not have you continue until I've stretched my legs, my maid has eaten, and my guest has gotten the opportunity to talk to himself in the autumn air."

Mr. Henney mumbled what seemed to a phrase of consent and pulled gently on the reins, causing the carriage to come to a short stop. "Shall I open the door and help you out, my lady?" he inquired, remembering his courtesy.

"No, Mr. Henney. I know I have troubled you enough. If you are hungry, Susan is preparing the food for us." On a different tangent, she turned her head to Peter, whose visage was already facing the carriage door. Although sitting, he seemed ready to jump out of the coach as soon as the door opened, and she knew she was the only one who could do that, as ladies always exited first. "Peter, open the door."

Startled, the young man nodded briefly before twisting the door handle and pushing it open, allowing for the confined space of the carriage to be introduced to an open path leading into a welcoming ocean of green. Too elated to finally be outside, he unknowingly stepped out of the carriage before letting Hattie go out first, and as he turned around to view the area and came to gaze upon the coach again, he found her standing bent by the open door, staring at him with a bemused face. To her, Peter hardly ever did anything out of the ordinary.

"Are you just going to stand there, Midshipman? Or are you going to help me down?" she asked, half of her stiff mouth curling into what appeared to be a spiritless smile. However, it was a smile nonetheless, and Peter was glad to see one on her face and, more importantly, directed to him.

"Forgive me, Miss Neville. I drifted from my manners for a moment as I was finally granted permission to step out of that box." He walked forward and extended his arm for her to take, and gently, she took it and stepped out, her maid having to shuffle the hem of her skirt down with her to prevent it from being caught and torn if some unfortunate incident were to happen.

And as soon as her feet touched the powdered dirt on the roadside, she broke her arm away from Peter's and stepped over to the grassy pasture that neighbored the road from both sides. The brisk autumn air kept the field rather cool to the touch and a bright lush green to the eyes. The few stray puffs of cloud that rolled across the azure blue mantle of sky seemed to skim just above the horizon, which was what Harriet strangely eyed with a great amount of interest. Standing beside her was her maid, awaiting instruction.

"Susan, Mr. Henney will help you prepare the meal, and meanwhile, Mr. Calamy and I shall take a walk around the field. You will be able to keep an eye on us, so we shall not be far." Susan nodded and then left to the carriage to gather the supplies, and Harriet turned to Peter, who remained standing on the road, his hands in his coat pockets and his face turned up to the sky.

"Peter," she called, beckoning him with her hand. The boy obeyed and neared her, feeling more comfortable that she was actually being a considerable amount more civil than before.

"Yes, Harriet?" he answered.

"Come, walk with me." She looped her arm through his and proceeded to lead him away from the road. Not far, just a few steps, and then she paused. Without looking at him she spoke. "Those letters," she began, her voice dropping to a more sorrowful tone. "Why did you send them even if I did not reply?" The young man thought for a moment at the question, for he frankly did not think that she would introduce such a question to him. From the way she had behaved, he presupposed that she had no intention of prying into the past, but he as he delved deeper into the thought, he realized that there was no use in assuming anything about Hattie. She was full of surprises, either bad or good.

"I'm not quite sure," said Peter, still unsure of it himself.

Writing to Harriet seemed to give him a purpose, rather than have him spend the boring days on a ship entertaining himself with food, drink and song until all the pleasures seemed dull. He felt, although she never replied, that writing to her kept him in touch with her. He never intended to lose the connection they shared as children. He treasured that too closely to have it dismissed. However, Harriet seemed to have lost all of her treasures, and replaced them with new, more promising luxuries.

"Perhaps I thought it would keep our friendship alive, although I know the complete opposite occurred. Yet, I knew that I was aware of that as I wrote, but I continued writing. It's difficult to explain," he continued. To that, Harriet was swift with her response.

"Then don't explain. By all means, do not. I am not as quick as you are. I cannot process things in an instant as you can."

"And I cannot skip to a beat as gracefully as you can," said Peter, his voice light with the air of mild sarcasm that Harriet so often used haphazardly.

He looked at her, hoping to see her face brighten at the sorry attempt of humor, but she remained with her passive, still face, her eyelids hooded over her dark eyes as she stared at her feet, rustling through the grass with the hem of her skirt skidding over the prickly green grass.

Peter believed he had hit another wrong note in trying to make Harriet's spirit sing again, and he looked away, narrowing his vision on the distant sea-green hills that rose beneath the end of the sky. Then, after what seemed to be a few more minutes of exacerbating silence, Harriet seemed to expel what seemed to be a mix between a sniff and a sigh, followed by a surprisingly stanch reply. "You are very much correct, Mr. Calamy," said she, neither approving nor cynical. "I do not think you could dance to save your life." She laughed at her own form of jest, raising her head and smiling at the grassy path before her.

"Then I consider it a blessing that officers are not required to be excellent dancers during battle." Another laugh came from her, although it was a bit more stifled as she attempted to close her smiling mouth.

She was forcing herself to remember his broken promise to her, but there was so much she wanted to ask him. She loved stories. She'd badger the senior Mr. Calamy to tell her stories of his nautical adventures, and so she'd do the same to Peter. Such stories were the kinds that put her to sleep. No fairytales or princess stories were what lulled little Harriet into her sweet dreams. Sea chanties and audacious ocean exploits were what carried her into slumber.

"What…" She paused, hoping that she would not seem too forward. "W-What actually happened while you were out to sea? You've probably written to me about them, but the stories seem more genuine if they come directly from their raconteur."

"The story is long, Miss Neville," replied Peter. "Are you willing to hear all of it?"

"We have the time." At that, Peter was about ready to say that they had had all the time during the carriage ride to where they stood, but he decided not to challenge her. He would have only succeeded in frustrating her again, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"Very well, Miss," said he. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"From the beginning of course…" She laughed and pulled on his arm as she quickened her pace up a hill to the area by the road where Susan and Mr. Henney had set up for their meal.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

_Passing green pastures  
Old games in the sky  
And to kneel before a tombstone  
Of a man who's said goodbye…_

**S**he lay on her back, arms folded comfortably over her stomach (which was finally content with food), and beamed a smile back to the brilliant rays of the sun. Her knees were bent upwards towards the sky, acting like two rigidly pointed mountains draped in white that blocked the view of the young man lying down beside her in the opposite direction. That is, if he ever were to look to his left. His eyes mirrored the color of the sky he looked up at, smiling feebly at whatever word came out of Harriet's mouth. It was good to hear her talk, but the girl did indeed enjoy talking too much to everyone's discomfort.

"And look there, Peter!" she said, beating her feet gently on the ground as her arm reached out blindly to shake him. "That one looks like a ship."

Now that she had his attention, he searched the smooth blue plain that hovered miles above him for the said cloud formation Hattie had been fussing over so enthusiastically. He found her excitement to be rather girlish of her—something a six year old would do, but he shook his head inwardly. He was with Hattie, and so he should have anticipated any childish behavior coming from her.

"I can't find it," he returned, sitting up and looking at her giggle at the sky. She caught this and sat up as well, eyeing him with a mocking look about her face.

"How foolish of you, Midshipman," she laughed. "You cannot see it because you have been hunting for it upside down. If you lie parallel to me, but not in the other direction, you will see it." Impulsively, she grabbed his arm and hauled him over into the proper place and pointed up at the drifting clouds. "Right there, Calamy. North-northwest in your nautical mind." She pointed, though there was really no need to. As soon as he heard the name of the compass point, his head had veered exactly to where the cloud ship was positioned, it gradually being blown away by the tame sea of winds.

"Who taught you the points on a compass?" he asked, peering at the far off sea vessel. However, as he stared at the cloud, his thoughts had wandered to Hattie's own knowledge of the sea. Hadn't she been in finishing school the whole time he had been on a warship?

"Oh, by a very good family friend of mine. Such a good man. Like a second father to me. I'm sure you know him very well, Peter, considering that it was your father you taught me such things whenever I came back to London to visit."

Peter's expression did not change. Inside, everything for him paused for just a moment, only to resume afterwards at a slower and more burdensome pace. Without a doubt it was his father who taught Hattie about such aspects of masculinity as the ways of the treacherous sea. But he knew that. He recalled the days when he and Hattie would sit in the den of his house, sitting on the thick, soft rugs on the polished wooden floors beside a cracking fire, and listening to his father's tales about the ocean. He would cheer and she would gasp whenever the action, blood and triumph were described, and if Hattie continued to remain petrified from the disturbing imagery, the senior Mr. Calamy would then suggest telling her a more optimistic tale about princesses.

And to his surprise, she would always decline and demand to know more about the sea. The girl always seemed to have a love for everything she feared.

Distantly, a call echoed to Hattie's ears, and she swerved her head in the direction from where it came. "Yes, Mr. Henney?" she yelled in reply, already up on her feet and walking towards the voice that was calling her and Calamy.

"We must leave now if we are to reach London in time, Miss!" Without wasting another second, she turned to Peter who continued to look at the cloud ship that had long since been smeared onto the indigo canvas of sky.

"We must go, Midshipman," she said. He uttered no words in return. "Peter?"

"Don't worry. I'm coming," he replied halfheartedly, and she waited no further for him. Picking up her pace, she ran back to her maid and her coach driver who waited for her by the carriage, and not once did she look back.

The carriage continued to wobble from side to side, acting as the cause of Hattie's highly present scowls. She had taken her embroidery up again, having cowered away again from possible verbal ornament with her guest.

As she sewed she recognized that she had had too frivolous a time with Peter when they looked for images in the clouds. It was a game they had played as children, and she enjoyed it every time. Only now, as a young woman, she had promised herself to refrain from having any merriment with Peter. A broken promise was a broken promise; words cracked, shredded and thrown away to decay. There was no use in rejuvenating their friendship.

The coach rocked in silence, the only sound heard being the grinding of the wheels on the road and the low hum of Mr. Henney out in the front. Peter seemed to find a rhythm to the noise in his boredom. There was the scratching of the wheels on the gravel, followed by a small thud. Next came Hattie's scowl as the thud moved her hands to stitch a mistake, and then the buzz of Mr. Henney. _Scratch_, _thud_, _scowl_, _buzz_.

He grew all the more baffled at Hattie's dramatic change in mood. Hours ago it was almost as if she was eight year old Hattie again, and then presently, she was gloomy Miss Harriet. Either she was trying very hard to be one or the other, or she had absolutely no control whatsoever over her fluctuating emotions. If she behaved as such in front of him, how would she behave in front of family? Would she be just as aloof and passive, or would she return to the Hattie whom people loved and chastised constantly for her spry persona?

The sun was coming low as it drew itself towards the far horizon and behind the green hills that continued to dominate the English countryside. The golden light seemed to increase in power and hue as it accepted the fact that it would vanish within an hour's time, and Peter took it as the perfect indication that he best accept that Hattie would never appreciate him the way she used to. But it would not hurt to give one last prevailing try.

"Where exactly will we be going to first once we reach London, Harriet?" he posed, appearing to Harriet as if the question had just abruptly popped into his mind.

She paused in her embroidery and stared at him, pondering over his sudden outburst of speech. "You are my guest, Peter. We shall visit your family first. Unless, of course, you request otherwise." Her eyes tired of his face and returned to the sickeningly microscopic stitches on her strained piece of cloth.

"No, Harriet. I do not object at all to your plans. And excuse me if my words are too specific, but how long will you visit my home?" He noticed her lips thin as they pressed together and her hands tense while holding the embroidery ring.

"No, Mr. Calamy, your question is valid to my ears. Your excuse is not needed. However, you are my guest, and as such, I am here to fulfill any order you demand. If you'd rather have me stay at my own home, I could very well do that." Her fingers drifted from their previous rigidity, and a sharp release of air streamed from her nose as she calmed herself, as if she had not displayed her displeasure evidently enough.

Peter cast his head down, not necessarily out of shame, but rather out of his own growing intolerance to her behavior. He had never lost his patience with her when they were children. In fact, he remembered Mrs. Neville adore him for the great amount of forbearance he had for her highly impatient daughter. The only moment in his life in which he had ever found himself yelling at Hattie was when she had objected to his decision to become a navy man. And even back then, he could not help but feel ashamed for opposing her. The look about her made her appear as a dainty, helpless young woman who would be wounded deeply if any man dared to show her a side of himself that was anything but kind and gentle. Peter knew too well that Harriet was no woman to disappoint, but she seemed to express that falseness about herself unconsciously, just as he seemed to convey childish innocence in his eyes, although they were eyes that were constantly exposed to the evils of war.

But to convince anything to Hattie was an arduous task. The woman's insurmountable pride prevented any sense from coming to her, or that was what Peter believed. With a blank look on his face, he lifted his head and looked at her sitting across from him, oblivious and happy with no knowledge of the concerns he had for her. Indeed, five years had been a long time for both of them. _Too long_, thought Peter.

"When was it last that you saw my mother?" he asked, knowing the relevance of the conversation was not if Harriet would stay with his family for a few days. He knew she would, but he wanted a glimpse of what he'd be expecting to see when he entered his childhood house once again. Plus, the last thing he wanted was for another conversation between them to die unhappily.

"Several months ago. Why do you ask?" she answered simply, threading her needle once more into the cloth.

He hated to see her so careless about the subject, as if just because he was not important to her anymore meant that neither was his family. But he refused to let his irritation grow deeper. He knew Harriet possessed great respect for his family. She just didn't want to show it openly before him.

"I'd just like to get some idea of how she is doing," he said, averting his eyes to the view out his window.

Harriet could not help but smile at his frank honesty. He had always cared deeply for his mother, and in a way, Mrs. Calamy had been very protective of her only child. Peter was and would forever be, her darling little boy no matter how tall, how wise or how detached he had become. Internally, she was looking very forward to the reunion between mother and son.

"You have nothing to worry about, Lieutenant," she replied, with the same insensitivity as before. "Your mother is doing fine."

Lady, lieutenant, coachman and maid. The four of them traveled for another day and a half before they came close to their destination. The night was black and the air was chillingly bitter when they entered the silent neighborhood in which Hattie and Peter grew up in. Very few of the houses contained the warm, convivial glow that would attract any wandering soul, and with the lack of carriages in some of the driveways, Peter could see that his neighborhood had loosened in its bonds. The children of the area had grown and gone away, and he and Hattie were no exception to it. The houses were filled with adults and the rather rich, but dull lives they lived from within closed walls and cheerless parties.

"A different place at night," commented Harriet, noticing Peter's slightly astonished eyes as he absorbed the scene outside his coach window.

"Indeed," he answered, seemingly uninterested. His spirit lied elsewhere, brooding over the possibilities that could await him at the door of his childhood abode.

Harriet gave no order to Mr. Henney to stop the carriage. She trusted that the coachman remembered which house belonged to the Calamys, and she was right to trust him. For soon, the carriage wheels gradually stopped creaking, and the rocking of the seats faded into stillness. With a slight lilt forward, the carriage stopped entirely, sitting directly in front of the pathway that led to the front doors of the Calamy residence.

Pale moonlight streamed from the moon in the sky and through the carriage windows, giving light to the faces of those patiently waiting within. Harriet looked at Peter, his eyes clearer than ever with the uncertainty of a boy, and she nodded subtly to him. "You may exit first, Peter, if it is your wish to do so."

For a second, the midshipman hesitated to step out, but he resolved to take Hattie's words into consideration, for there was no use in shying away from something that would never leave. He was more than eager to see his mother again.

He opened the small carriage door and stepped out, meeting Mr. Henney as his feet touched the ground. Harriet was already up from her seat and ready to go out, waiting for Mr. Henney's hand to help her, but Peter, being closest, on instinct took her extended hand and guided her out.

"Thank you, Peter," she said brusquely, snatching her hand back. "Now, if you please, lead the way." Without a double glance back, Peter easily obeyed and walked ahead to his home, Harriet trailing behind him with Mr. Henney as her escort. Her maid, Susan, trailed last.

Shortly after Peter had knocked on the door, a servant appeared to answer it, requesting his name and purpose for coming to the house so late. "Apologies, sir," said Peter. "I am Midshipman Peter Miles Calamy, and if possible, I would like to have a word with my mother."

The servant stood a good few minutes in the entrance, staring at Peter with pure, controlled amazement before rushing back into the house to retrieve Mrs. Calamy.

Meanwhile, Harriet bade Peter to enter, although the servant had failed to welcome them in, and once inside, Mr. Henney and Susan stepped to the side, leaving lady and officer standing side by side in the dimly lit foyer.

Peter would have liked some words of reassurance from Harriet to ease his nervousness, but she remained quite content with her silence, positioned still by his side with eyes half-hooded and a stiff jaw. From above, a few steps could be heard quickening their pace and the 'thump' of heeled feet grew louder, and Peter's anxiety rose with each second that passed by.

The woman beside him, strangely, could not have been more at ease. Harriet was smirking to herself inside, finding Peter's evident tenseness an odd entertainment. She had never seen Peter so terribly nervous. He usually took things as they were, not expecting anything, and yet here he stood, eyes looking forward and waiting ever-so patiently for his mother to appear. She almost wanted to tell him to relax, but her lips remained shut and she continued to stare at the floor. An intervention was not necessary.

Her ears suddenly picked up the strikingly close sound of someone's steps and she looked up and saw the frame of the aged Mrs. Calamy standing at the base of the staircase, a broad smile on her seemingly ageless face.

"Peter!" she cried, walking quickly forward to her son, and he instantly left his spot beside Harriet to welcome his mother, not knowing what to say or think, but to be thankful for finally being reunited with her again. The old woman took Peter's face in her thin hands and smiled at the same eyes that she gave him, eyes that were currently glossing with tears. "Dear son," said she. "Welcome home." She kissed both sides of his face before finally giving him his own chance to speak.

"I am glad to _be_ home, Mother, and I am glad you are doing well." Mother embraced son one more time before turning her attention to those who had traveled with Peter, for the respected Mrs. Calamy soon discovered that her son did not arrive alone.

"Miss Neville," beckoned Mrs. Calamy. "Do come forward, daughter." Harriet obeyed the command immediately, her mouth half-smirking to be addressed so familiarly by her. True, she had known the Calamys long enough to be considered part of their family, and thus a 'daughter' to them, but she did not expect to be called such in front of Peter, for she had made it evident to him that the bonds of friendship from the past were not as they once were.

Once before the Lady, she curtsied low, her knee about half a foot from the floor, and Mrs. Calamy believed such a sign of respect was not essential. "Oh, Hattie, you need not bow that low to any person but the Queen. Rise, daughter." Harriet rose to face the moon-white countenance of her elder and observed a few more strands of grey hair in her dulling chestnut tresses.

"Apologies for arriving so late, Mrs. Calamy," said Harriet. "I hope we did not startle you too much."

"No, no, not at all, Miss Neville. Come, sit," replied Mrs. Calamy, leading the two of them down the hallway and to the parlor. As they departed, Harriet looked over her shoulder and nodded to her coachman and maid, signaling their release from orders for a moment.

Harriet took a seat in an armchair, away from mother and son who sat at a couch in the parlor. A servant soon arrived bearing some refreshments for them, and Harriet kindly declined. She watched with interest at the conversation between mother and son, and how she had never seen Peter smile so many times in such a small amount of time. His smile revealed the boy in him, which she very much adored, although she professed to despise this new enchanting young naval officer sitting a few feet away from her.

She did not listen to what mother and son talked about. She knew it was not her place, but she was welcomed into the parlor by them and she could not just get up and leave so soon. Though, she did hate being excluded from talk, especially amongst people she knew. But she decided to try her patience a bit further. A few more minutes of silence and boredom would not be too painful.

Those minutes, however, flew too slowly for her own pleasure and she found herself beginning to slouch in her seat as she heard mother and son continue to chatter away. Now, she was not interested in anything but getting some rest, and finally, she summed up the courage to excuse herself from their wondrous company.

As she prepared for bed, with the help of her maid, and at last rested her head on a pillow in a guestroom, she found herself feeling a small sense of content. She was happy that Peter was technically "home" and she was glad that she had been the one who brought him there.

Her brown eyes were covered in the need for sleep, and she soon drifted off into reminiscent dreams of a man and boy whom she held very close to her heart.

The morning dawned with a bleak light, the warmth of the sun being paled by the thick passing of grey clouds, and the strength of the breezes gradually swelled to harsher gusts. Every now and then the wind would brush aggressively against the home windows, its faint howls aware to the keen human ear, but leaving young Miss Neville in an uncomfortable slumber.

Peter however, was inclined to rise early, having grown accustomed to the inopportune rising hours on board a ship. But he had also woken early for another reason. He had talked long into the night with his mother, telling her of his adventures in the broadest of details, for he knew his mother had already learned much of his duties through his letters. But then the topic of his father was brought up, and it was the one thing that silenced him, and it also happened to be the other reason he had for waking at dawn.

Stepping out of his room, fully dressed in his naval array, he traveled down the dim hallway, not minding the several empty grey bedrooms that he noticed out of the corner of his eye. He came upon a closed door to his right, which was the only particular bedroom which he felt compelled to stop in front of. In truth, he had paused before the door for a specific reason, but he began to believe that he had done so in vain.

But he had learned to be a man of decision. After all, a naval officer could never delay his decision. It had to be immediate, certain, resolute, and a change in his environment should not have influenced how his mind decided on things. Taking in a short breath, he prepared to knock on the door, only to have his fist hit air as the door gave way, revealing the face of Susan, Harriet's maid.

"Oh, Mr. Calamy, apologies," whispered the maid, leaning to the other side of the doorway to let Peter pass. "Are you here to…?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to wake her just to ask her a question," replied Peter, refraining from entering the room.

"Miss Neville does not get too cross in the morning. I must wake her everyday and she usually agrees with little scowling." Peter managed a smile and decided to trust the maid and enter the room, his booted feet thudding softly over the rug-covered floor. "And sir?" asked Susan.

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to leave and close the door or-?"

"No. You may stay, and the door may be left open," answered Peter. He spotted a chair belonging to the vanity in the room and pulled it to the side of Harriet's bed, where he sat and looked at her carefully before speaking loud enough for her to hear.

She appeared slightly tense in her sleep, her lips still set in that prim line and her chin still held high in the air. Her body was covered in her bed sheets and all that he saw of her other than her face was her sleeved left arm. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly to her.

"Harriet?" She moved not a finger and Peter repeated her name, only to achieve the same response. Not wanting to disturb her, he turned to her maid who stood at the other side of the room preparing a bowl of water for her lady. "Susan," he said. "Will you please tell her that I'd like to talk to her when she wakes?"

The maid turned her head around and shook her head with a small chuckle at the young Mr. Calamy's flawless manners. "Sir, if you came to her room at such an hour then you must have been driven here by some urgency. I will wake her for you." Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the maid was already well on her way to the bedpost, where she reached over and shook Harriet's leg.

"Arise, miss. Quickly now."

Harriet moaned and shifted onto her side, clinging to the covers tightly. Susan moved to the bedside and shook Harriet's shoulder continuously until the young girl at last waved her arm to shoo her maid away and opened her eyes. "What is the hour?" was the first thing that came from her mouth, and Susan nodded at the curtained windows.

"Perhaps dawn, maybe earlier, my lady," said Susan.

"Not even _dawn_?" whined Harriet, closing her eyes in frustration. "What explanation do you have for waking me at such an ungodly hour?" Peter looked over at the maid, skeptical of Susan's previous statement that Harriet rarely woke with "little scowling."

"The only explanation I have sits right to your left, Miss," responded Susan before walking over to the opposite side of the room to retrieve the bowl of water she had prepared.

Harriet glanced to her left and was shocked to find Peter sitting beside the bed, and her face grew red as she remembered she was in her nightclothes before him. "Susan!" she hissed. "My robe this instant!"

The maid laughed lightly before fulfilling the order and with a burning face, Harriet listened to the request of her blushing visitor.

The wind whipped at their faces as they stood on the side of the road, Harriet looking at the profile of her fellow traveler. Now that she had reunited son with mother, it was now her turn to be the guest, while Peter and the members of his household tended to her every need. But there was little that she wanted from any of them.

She watched him, for once feeling genuinely sorry for the young man. Her bonnet ribbon tied beneath her chin blew about in the angry wind, and she struggled to keep herself from shivering in the biting autumn cold. She wore a black riding habit, the two of them having reached their destination through horseback, and she waited patiently for him to speak or, better, to move.

"Are you certain about this, Peter? You haven't taken a step at all."

For a second, he appeared to not have heard her, but he lifted his bent head and their eyes met, and she had never seen his blue eyes so cold and frustrated. But the boy had every reason to feel what he felt. He stood in front of a cemetery gate, the wide dirt path temptingly open to him, and he pictured the gateway during such a dreary day as the gaping mouth of death beckoning him to enter.

"I'm certain, Harriet," he answered unwaveringly. "I thank you for taking me here, for I did not want to burden my mother with a visit to my father's grave. Thank you." He nodded stiffly towards her before walking through the gate and leaving Harriet standing solo in the relentless current of the wind.

Peter hesitantly made his way through the tombstones, his eyes almost refusing to find his father's name engraved onto a piece of frigid, dead rock. And the earth surrounding the buried bodies of the deceased was soft and lush, contrasting the place of death with life in another form. He glanced over the faces of carved angels, of immobile, strong crosses, of bland smoothed stone hiding under years of neglect and undergrowth. He stepped in between graves of husbands, wives, sons, daughters, children. The list was infinite. Time was infinite, but sadly, for all the souls that rested under the ground, time had come short.

Messages bearing the names of cousins, sisters, brothers, friends imprinted permanently onto a thick grey slab. _Of fathers…_thought Peter, his feet coming to a sudden halt as his eyes regretted seeing the message addressed to his father onto a wide, elegantly carved tombstone, sitting in a spacious area of bright green.

His lips tightened as he stood a few feet away from the stone, staring at the name with an alarming amount of elevating emotion. However, his body remained composed, despite the whirlwind of thoughts clashing in his head. Just looking at the name—_Calamy_—made his legs feel induced to fall, to kneel, to collapse and break under the weight such a name made him carry. The ground he stood on covered a man whose blood was his blood, whose life was his life, whose dreams were his dreams, and Peter was unable to take another step, for as soon as he lifted his foot, he fell to his knees, stopping himself from falling further with a fist to the ground.

Out of respect, he removed his hat, keeping his eyes focused on the earth beneath his knees, and tried to find any words to say to the man that lay buried for years in the crushing dirt. He inhaled the stale breath of the wind, welcoming the cold that streamed into his lungs and closed his eyes, the words he wanted to say assorting themselves into a prayer that longed to be uttered.

But his fear was that he'd find the words insufficient to be said, and so he debated whether it was worth saying it at all.

"Peter?" came a voice from behind. He did not turn; he remained in the same position and same frame of mind.

Harriet observed him kneeling so still before the tombstone, understanding that the young man did not want any disturbances, but she had also observed that he had said not a word to his father, and she wondered why.

Taking her chances, she knelt down beside him, looking at his motionless silhouette and touching his shoulder gingerly, afraid to startle him from his concentration. "Peter…" she whispered, her voice swept away by the wind.

He returned nothing to her, and she expected his silence and so persisted to talk to him. For perhaps in her speaking to him without him answering, he'd learn that it would be just as simple to speak to his deceased father. "You know what he told me before I left for Godolphin?" she said, smiling meekly at the grave and leaning forward to place a rose against the colorless stone. "He told me to return as a lady soon, so that he could marry me to his son." She laughed and looked at Peter, but he showed no sign of listening. His facial expression had not changed and she began to feel ashamed for trying to disrupt his musings. Although all she was trying to do was to get him to speak openly.

But she was wrong to think Peter had not heard anything she said, for he had been listening clearly. He found her story very much something that his father would indeed do without his knowledge, and it brought him back to treasured childhood memories.

"I thank you, Harriet," said Peter suddenly, causing Harriet to look at him with raised eyebrows. He lifted his head and turned to her, only to turn back to the tombstone. "I learned of my father's death a few years ago, while I was at sea," he began, pausing as his throat tightened and he gulped. "The letter came from my mother, and I had assumed it to be one of her normal letters, and so I waited before opening it, though that wait was stupid of me. I could have—I should have—" He cut off his words, his eyes still remaining on the block of rock, but Harriet could not have seen from where she sat that his eyes were finding it difficult to dam any liquid anguish desiring to fall.

He let out a breath and stood up and kneeled closer to the stone, so that it sat directly in front of him, and his field of view was filled with the details of the grave. "As soon as I learned of his… departure," continued Peter, the words seeming to come from his lips miserably. "I went to my captain at once to request a leave on land. I had earned enough, and gone through enough to do so, but we were weeks from a port."

Again, there followed the dreaded moment of silence, but Harriet remained alert, and she knew Peter was sure of what he had to say, he just did not know how to say it. "So I…" He trailed off, and looked away from the stone with an embarrassed sniff before thinking about speaking again. "So I… I stayed on the ship… I missed the funeral… and I missed… you."

At that, he gave a disgruntled sigh, frustrated with himself and what he had done years ago. Had he become so caught up in his duty that he had failed to remember the significance of his home? Of his family? Perhaps leaving had been too easy for him. Perhaps he was too eager to see new places and new faces. If only he had kept in touch with his home and family a little bit more—not just through letters, but through visits—then perhaps he wouldn't have missed his one opportunity to say goodbye to the man who gave him that new beginning; perhaps he wouldn't have to sit before a faceless stone in order to say goodbye, while he could have embraced his father one last time before he went under. But here, there was nothing to embrace. Just a stone bearing a weight and a name so heavy, that it forced all to kneel.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

_One try to heal the breach  
Mend a stubborn wound  
But she falls out of his reach  
To his mother's haunting tune…_

**H**arriet trembled from the cold, her gloved fingers and booted feet feeling numb in the dry, wintry air, and she willed every part of her body to keep from shaking openly. She'd only draw the attention of her companion, and that was the last thing she desired at the moment.

They were riding back from the cemetery, the young lieutenant at last concluding his visit to his father's grave. Although, she could sense that he was still highly dissatisfied with himself. Then again, discontent was a feeling they both happened to share. She, displeased with him, and he, displeased with himself.

But neither had spoken a word to the other as they rode, yet Harriet found herself strangely wanting conversation between them. Her mind had never ceased to wonder what Peter's own head was thinking after the visit. He had told his story to the grave, and she had heard it, but the young woman had no clear indication of how he felt afterwards. The only thing she did notice was that young Mister Calamy was still terribly disappointed.

However, she had never honestly known how to comfort Peter in his rare times of disgruntlement. She allotted the young man his space, even as children. Or in some instances, she'd try to cheer him up with a game, though he usually despised those already. Or she'd find out what he was in conflict with and talk to him about it. And often that attempt would only lead to further argument between the two. But those were instances in their past, when they were still considered foolish children. Their current dilemmas were far from possible resolutions, and their problems had also increased in gravity. No silly game or amount of empty space would heal them. Comfort was necessary.

Distracted from her thoughts, she was unable to direct her horse away from a small stone that jutted from the dirt road and with an abrupt bounce upward, she was pulled from her daydreams just in time to hear her horse whinny from the scratch on the sharp piece of rock. Leaning forward, she stroked the beast's neck in some mode of sympathy, but her horse continued to snort and walk with what appeared to be stinging pain.

"Peter," called Harriet, pulling gently on the reins to halt her steed. The horse and rider ahead of her followed in action and paused, turning back minimally to face her. "I must check the hoof of my mare. Will you hold her reins while I inspect her limb for any injuries?"

With a shallow nod of the head, the boy turned his steed around and dismounted, approaching both woman and mare without a word coming from his pinned lips. "Thank you," said Harriet, sliding off the sidesaddle and landing on the ground. She knelt beside the horse's right hoof and lifted it from behind, her eyes quickly scanning the dirty surface for any cut or blood.

There was an injury to the mare's foot, but judging by the dried blood crusted around the slit, Harriet assumed that the horse had had a previous wound that was in the process of healing, only to reopen again due to her carelessness. "Dear thing," she sighed, setting the hoof down. Her mare seemed to grunt her empathy aside.

"What is it?" asked Peter, still holding onto the reins and casually looking down to meet Harriet's stare.

"She has a deep cut on her foot, Mr. Calamy," replied Harriet, standing up and dusting off her skirt. "Not bleeding very much, but I am sure it must sting. But perhaps she'll manage for a few more miles. I do not think I weigh too much to be a burden to her."

With that, she mounted her steed once again, and with a wave of her hand, indicated to Peter to return to his horse and recommence the ride back to his house. The young man seemed to hesitate to depart, worried that Harriet's decision to continue to ride upon her injured horse was a bit inconsiderate, but he left without uttering a word of disagreement. He did not want to argue with her.

Before long, they were off again, moving at an even slower pace now that Harriet's mare was lagging. Her horse's groans and loud release of breath did not stop, and her worry eventually switched into guilt. "Just a few more miles," she encouraged, patting her horse's mane weakly. But her words did nothing to help the horse.

When her mare's limp became more apparent, Harriet took upon the habit of looking behind her, making sure that her horse's steps did not begin to leave behind bloody prints on the ground. But eventually they did, and Harriet's conscience had engulfed her. "Dear thing," she sighed, pulling back the reins again and hailing Peter to stop as well. She dismounted, and repeated an inspection of the wound and this time observed that the continuous movement she had dragged her horse into had spurred blood flow, and thus, for the gash to bleed.

With a slight "tsk" sound coming from her mouth, Harriet stood up and stared at her mare's leg with her hands on her hips, wondering what was to be done. "It won't do," she said firmly, her head shaking minimally from left to right.

_And if it will not do, _she thought_, then I am left with just one option to get home, and I certainly am not going to request such a thing._

"Is she unable to bear you?" questioned Peter, bringing his steed closer to where Harriet and her mare stood.

"I find that she is fully capable of bearing me, but I do not wish to cause further damage to her injury," snapped Harriet, her tongue making the "tsk-ing" sound again. "I'd rather her not bleed more for me."

"What will you do then?"

Harriet scowled and turned away, pacing away from her horse and from Peter. The question she wanted to ask him waited anxiously to pop from her lips, but no, she could never request such a thing. For a lady, she bore too much pride to be considered reasonable, (let alone appeasable) and her bitterness towards Peter only kept her closer to that pride.

"I don't know," she burst at last, although she knew exactly what had to be done if both were going to return to their destination without catching cold. She could have very well sent Peter ahead to get a new horse for her, but that was a waste of time. And the only other possible way was something she forbade herself to accept. But she had already accepted it.

Peter watched with strange amusement at her pacing to and fro, a finger to her chin, and her mouth mumbling jumbled words. What could she have been debating over, and more importantly, to her own self?

"Harriet," he said gently, catching her off guard and prompting her quick little feet to rest.

"What?" she answered bitterly, only to have her furrowed brow relax as she realized the impropriety of her action. A good lady of the court kept her tongue dull, not sharp.

"I am sure my horse can bear you along as well. Your mare's instinct will have her follow us."

And although that had been the question she had so long desired to ask him, she acted as if the idea was brilliant and new. That, along with purely false modesty.

"Oh, Peter," she said, mildly scolding him. "You need not do that."

"Harriet," he began, already extending his arm to her. Her defeat and acceptance of his offer were already blatant on her speechless, blank face, and she allowed no more words to come from him, for she had taken his hand with a bowed head.

She stuck her foot in the stirrup and sat her bottom on the saddle behind Peter, both her legs swaying on one side of the horse as she had been taught to ride by sidesaddle. It was always believed that should a woman ride like a man, with one leg on each side of the horse, she'd have a larger possibility of being incapable of bearing children, and of course, it was a woman's job to ensure the continuation of her husband's name and legacy. However, Harriet had come to disbelieve the myth, for she had tried riding normally one time with Red, and not only did she find that it was a lot easier, it was certainly more comfortable. At least, it was for her.

Now delicately seated behind her escort, she whistled lightly for her mare to come alongside them, but the mare appeared to decline, contenting herself with following them from behind.

Peter stole a glance quickly over his shoulder at Harriet to make sure she wasn't about to fall off the horse, and seeing that her head was turned, facing the rider-less steed, he nudged the sides of his own horse gently with his heels and commenced the journey back home.

As it was with the carriage ride to his home, Peter was again reacquainted with Harriet's scowling due to the bumps and jumps on the ride. Stubborn as she was, she refused to hold onto him and so simply sat on the saddle without anything to grasp to keep her from falling. Peter wanted to suggest for her to, frankly, cling to him, for what else did she have to hold onto to steady herself on the rough road home? But he decided it was better for the woman to discover that for herself and confront her obstinacy with an honest heart.

The lady sitting behind him was, in fact, extremely close to just attaching her arms around him for fear of falling off and getting run over by the horse. She had heard often the stories of unfortunate riders who fell off their horses and were trampled over; stories which had contributed to her fear and dislike for horses from the beginning. However, fear or not, Harriet declined adhering herself to Peter, for she found that her previous actions clearly announced that she loathed him. But one jump could send her off the horse.

Her teeth bit into her lip and Peter glanced at her over his shoulder for a quick moment, only to find that her worried eyes were focused on the ground, the fear of getting thrown off greatly affecting her. The young man almost smiled at her barefaced indecision, and Harriet could have guessed that he was probably laughing inside at her flustered self, which only made her want to abandon her pride all the more. But she wasn't about to let Peter have his laughs either.

"Harriet," sighed Peter at last, noticing a large hill ahead of them. "I do request that you hold onto me."

"Nonsense, Peter," she replied, her voice quivering just slightly. "I'll be fine."

"When we have to go up and down that hill you won't be fine, I promise you that," he returned, with the teasing "sing-song" air intertwined with his words.

"I think I can manage, midshipman," she persisted and he shrugged casually, causing a small whimper to escape her. With a pout, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the large hill waiting for them, and again, her teeth dug into her lip as she debated over what to do.

When at last they began going up the hill, Harriet had great difficulty keeping herself from falling backwards and over the horse's rump; a fall which would have her end up on the dirt road and most likely rolling the rest of the way down the hill. And proper Harriet would never want such a dreadful thing to happen to her, yet oddly her arms remained crossed and her bottom lip remained sore from the refusal of her teeth to keep from biting it. And in her head, the same three words began to swarm around with elevating power. _What to do? What to do? What to do?_

And, since they were riding up the hill, it was required of Peter to push his horse to go a little faster, adding speed to Harriet's list of worries. As the horse ran up, she felt her body begin to slip from the saddle and with a cry, she swung her arms around Peter's abdomen and grimaced as she anticipated finally falling off the horse, the side of her pinched face pressed against Peter's shoulder.

The boy himself almost winced a bit for the girl had embraced him tightly, almost like a trap that had suddenly let loose and squeezed the breathe out of him, and he stopped his horse at the top of the hill and turned his head to check on the frightened girl. "Hattie," he said, trying to move a bit to loosen her hold on him.

"Don't say a word, Peter," she growled, lifting her head and looking at him with a blushing face. "Just ride." He nodded to her, smirking lightly at her embarrassment. And to his surprise and to her mortification, she never let go of him again until they reached his house.

Her eyes scanned every detail of the various ship models carefully set on display in the shelves of the den. The bright flames started in the nearby fireplace sent a warm glow against the gleaming bark of the ships, and a thin, white finger traced along the hull of a brilliantly assembled miniature man-of-war, stopping just at the tip of its bowsprit.

She was there to retire to her embroidery, but was too captivated by the enchanting vessels just sitting across from her place of work to ignore them. And with her embroidery circle hanging loosely in her left hand, she moved her finger from that ship to the next one, the look of awe on her face brightening.

"And that must be…" She paused as she examined the model, her eyes narrowing in on a certain sail that hung in the back. "It's on every other ship I've looked at but what is it called again?" In that moment, she hoped that the senior Mr. Calamy would happen to walk in and see her pondering over the sail and answer it for her, quick and sharp, but alas, the stories of the sea had ended long ago for her.

Peter stepped out of the dining room where his mother was currently directing their servants in the preparations for the evening meal. He had gone in to tell her about his visit to his father's grave and informed her that it went well, and his mother agreed with him with several nods of her head, but she said very few words in response. It became clear to him that his mother did not like to speak of the subject, and neither did he, and he preferred that time to be the last they'd speak of his father's death, although he knew it would never be something he'd forget.

After all, he would forever bear the name of his father: Calamy. And he would never be able to ignore his own identity.

He walked down the dimly lit hallway from the dining hall, his footsteps echoing in solitude, and he quickly passed by room after room, with one room happening to capture his attention.

His feet paused almost instantly at the sight of the warmly lit den and he entered cautiously, hoping not to disrupt the evident concentration of the person in there. To him, the person appeared to be focused on a specific toy vessel, her dark eyes squinting at a particular shape of white. He found her interest in such a simple object as unusually pleasing, making him feel that her admiration for his family had never faltered, although she appeared to show it. Perhaps there was still much of the same adoration and respect in her for them as there were years ago.

"Harriet?" he asked softly, still approaching her with prudence. He had not yet known this new Harriet well enough to determine when it was safe to speak with her openly.

He received no reply, save for a swift shift of her eyes from the little sail to his face and then back to the ship. She failed to answer for two reasons. One, she really had no wish to speak with him, but two, she wanted him to answer the question she was thinking, just to see if son was truly indeed like father.

"That's the driver," he stated, following the gaze of her eyes to that certain sail on the vessel. The girl smiled both inside and out and turned her head to him, still grinning.

"Ah, I was wondering what it was. It was in the back of my mind. I just couldn't get to it. Now tell me, what type of ship is this?" She tilted her head over at the same boat and presented it as if she were introducing a guest.

His lips curved faintly at her vague attempt to be a bit of her playful self, and he found it safe to continue walking forward towards her.

"It's a topsail schooner; sixth rate, if you are wondering. Although I question whether such knowledge will ever be useful to a future lady of the Court," answered Peter, becoming more of himself as he gradually transferred his mindset back to an ocean atmosphere.

Harriet gave a short release of what appeared to sound like a cross between a snort, a giggle and a scoff before looking back at the discussed boat and tapping its bark again. "Ah, Peter," she said, shaking her head a bit. "I must agree with you there. What on earth will I ever do with such information? Red will be a lawyer and so I shall be surrounded by men of the law instead of by men of the sea. Do you remember Red? I think I mentioned him in some of my earliest letters."

"I believe I do, Miss Neville," said Peter, wondering as to why she had brought up the name so suddenly.

"He is my fiancé," replied Harriet simply, looking up at the ceiling as she said the words. Peter's eyes were pricked to remain open by the same words and he looked at her, trying his best to refrain from becoming mute.

But he suddenly remembered the image of the man who Harriet had kissed goodbye before going to London with him, and of course Harriet would only kiss the man she was engaged to. So how had he missed such a thing? How had he failed to put that kiss and her earlier proclamation of, "I'm engaged," together? He knew then that he shouldn't have been the least bit surprised, but Harriet noticed his wide blue eyes and her smile increased at such an honest act of bewilderment.

"You ought to speak with Mr. O'Cleirigh one day, Peter," suggested Harriet, intending for the phrase to calm her companion's shock. "Despite being an aspiring lawyer, he has a rather good background on nautical affairs, especially those concerning Bonaparte, and without a doubt Captain Aubrey has instilled in you utter hate for the Frenchman. As for me, I'd rather pass on any discussion with naval officers. They intimidate me too much."

She drifted away from the shelf of ships and back to her seat, where she resumed her embroidery and Peter trailed after her, intrigued by her professed fear of the navy.

"Why would you fear us?" he asked, seating himself in a chair adjacent to her and still leaning forward so as to have her full attention.

She looped her needle and thread through the white piece of cloth and snickered lightly, looking up at him briefly before returning her vision to her needlepoint. "I'm not certain as to how to explain it, Peter. Having known your father and having to face all those officers at your house whenever I visited as a girl, well, I just find their presence… frightening." She paused and took a rest from the sewing, dropping the embroidery ring carelessly into her lap.

"How so?" continued Calamy, his eyes remaining fixed on hers as she leaned back in her chair and rested her elbow on the chair's arm.

She wanted to say something about his strong interest in extracting an answer from her, which could have very well been deciphered through the smile perpetually framing her lips, but she decided not to. For once, she believed she'd answer young Mr. Calamy's question before he replied to her own.

"To be honest, I'd rather speak to the king than an officer of his navy. The hardship and situations navy men have endured just seem far more apparent in their physical appearance than in that of any other class of men I have seen, other than that of the army. Whenever I look at an officer's or a sailor's visage, I feel prone to respecting their suffering."

Peter almost immediately discarded her reasoning behind such a thing. Did she always look upon a naval profession in a depressing perspective? For truly, if the career _was_ as awful as she made it out to be, then how come so many men were enlisted? Then again, many were forced into the service, but it eventually became a part of them. And, there were the few brave souls who _wanted_ to risk their lives for King and country, and he was no exception.

"For a woman who knows so much of nautical life, I'd presume your opinion of us would be more positive," was all Peter could really say to her. He wanted to be bold and defend his profession with, "Must you speak so lowly of the Service, Miss Neville?" but he knew well that such words would ignite a spark of anger in her, and he could picture her standing up with a huff and glare at him.

"I never said that, Peter," she snapped, reaching for her embroidery again. "I said I respected you and your fellow navy men." She yanked the needle and thread through the cloth as her upper lip stiffened considerably.

"But you think our lives are occupied with pain and discontent, Harriet," Peter retorted sharply. "They are not. You pity us because we live to defend our country."

"I _respect_ you, Peter. I do not pity you or your men, for rather you be saved from pity than exposed to it. You misinterpret my meanings and your failure in asking me to clarify leaves you putting words in my mouth."

She tossed her needle and thread aside and averted her fuming face to the dreary view of the countryside waiting outside a window in the room. Again, she had put herself in a battle of wits with Peter; to see who could argue better, who could convince the other with faster acceptance. And she knew she would lose. She argued her side to the best of her limits, but she knew her opinions were never intelligent or reasonable. They were selfish and biased; unsupported and childish, and such observations were never the ones society wanted to discuss.

"You put words in _my_ mouth, Hattie; in every naval officer's and sailor's mouth by assuming the truth in our lives when you knew naught of it." His reply was intended to be gentle; to calm her by putting some sense into her head without being too constraining, but Harriet would never accept his reason peacefully, and Peter noticed his mistake far too late to stop her from doing what she did next.

"I'm going home," she stated, almost yelling it as she abandoned her seat and stormed for the exit to the den. _And don't follow me_.

Her internal wish was granted, for Peter remained in his seat, his eyes glancing at the path her feet took to the exit and then veering back to the flames weakening in the fireplace. He wanted to apologize, for his tongue had grown so accustomed to apologizing to her when they were children. If he made one small error to send Harriet into a fit or into tears, he couldn't help but say, "I'm sorry." But he forced the words down his tightened throat. Harriet believed that things were not as they once were between them, and for once, he agreed with her.

The frown on her face was already deeply set as she made her way up to the guestroom which the Calamys had so kindly granted to her. But she could not stand being in the house a moment longer. As much as she didn't want to go home, she knew she had to. She'd rather face her mother than argue more with Peter. And perhaps while she packed her things with angry little steps and agitated little sighs, she realized her true rationale for fearing naval officers.

Their experience made them thoroughly acquainted with knowledge and current events, and she didn't want to make herself look stupid in front of them with her lack of sophisticated conversation. She'd make her point, and they'd most likely disagree, and they wouldn't leave the matter alone until she surrendered to their logic.

No wonder she loathed a profound tête-à-tête with Peter, even as a child. She'd always lose. And she remembered looking at the cheerfully grim faces of officers at the Calamys' residence when they were little. Even then she was afraid of them. To them, and to them only, she had the oddest fear of appearing dim-witted.

With her frustration at a pause, she sat on the edge of her bed and looked at the trunk that was half-packed. Across the room, directly ahead of her sat a vanity, and she stared at the mirror from her place on the bed, the flicker of an old memory reflecting in the silver glass. She saw the face of a girl who glared back at the face of a boy who had just proved her wrong in some stupid and babyish sense. And now she knew why she feared them—the officers. He established her timidity by always coming out triumphant in any argument. Because of his brilliant, bright mind, she became familiar with defeat. His ally was the navy. His life was the navy. And no matter what she'd say, she knew he'd never change his mind.

There was rain the next morning, but nonetheless she carried on with her desire to get away from Peter, and so had her things packed and ready and sitting neatly together in the foyer. Tightening the bonnet ribbon beneath her chin, she pivoted on her heel to confront the countenances of her hosts.

But she didn't manage to get one word out when Mrs. Calamy spoke for her.

"It was a pleasure having you here, my dear," she said. "Must you really return home so soon?"

"I feel inclined to, Mrs. Calamy," replied Harriet tonelessly, her dark eyes glimpsing at Peter for less than a second.

She was brave to have made such a deliberate sign of repulsion openly before Mrs. Calamy, but she did not feel so obliged to be proper amongst familiar faces. Although, that one action did not go unnoticed by the senior woman, and she made a note in her head to speak to her son about it after the young lady had left.

"Well, do be careful down the road. By all means, if I did not trust you so well, I would have had Peter escort you to your home," remarked Mrs. Calamy, and Harriet unknowingly grinned out of annoyance at the comment.

"I assure you, I can manage, Missus. My residence is, after all, but a few streets down the road, but I thank you for your consideration." She curtsied for both mother and son before she nodded at Mr. Henney, who picked up her belongings and transferred them to the carriage waiting in the rain for her.

"I shall send someone over in a few days to see how you are doing, Harriet," said Mrs. Calamy, and Harriet instantly came to the conclusion that she'd send Peter to her, but she showed no objection nor mouthed any hint of rebuttal at the statement. Instead, she curtsied again.

"I shall be fine, Mrs. Calamy. My parents, after all, will be there."

"Tell them I send my greetings then, child." The older woman came forth and kissed both sides of Harriet's thin face before letting her pass through the doors and out into the rain.

The girl did not hesitate to run to her carriage to escape from being soaked, and she hopped into the black box on wheels without the aid of her footman. Mr. Henney took his position at the front of the coach, reins and whip in hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the leather rope cracked amidst the pitter-patter of the rain and off the carriage went, rolling down the muddy street.

As the servants closed the doors, Peter could already sense that his mother wanted to speak to him, and he clearly wanted to avoid the matter, especially if the subject would be Miss Neville. But mother knew son too well, and spoke before he could even turn around and take a step away from her.

"She is a sweet girl, is she not, my son?" inquired Mrs. Calamy, bending her head to meet her son's sure-to-be stunned expression, and when he did not answer, for fear of putting his disagreement in distinguishable words, she continued on with what she wanted to say.

"Without a doubt she has grown into a fine lady. Right, my son?" And at the less daunting question, he was able to utter some words, although greatly murmured.

"R-Right, Mother."

"Not much has changed, I suppose," she added further, almost dully, and the simplicity of her observations caused Peter to wonder if she was hinting at something, though he wasn't quite sure. His mother was not the one to do such a thing; to set him up, that is. His father was always the source of jest.

"What do you mean, Mother?" asked Peter, and mother's eyes looked at son's, and she had come to find that the same childlike innocence still gleamed brightly in the blue orbs. For a second, she was proud of herself for having given him those calming eyes; eyes appearing so tranquil that they were capable of concealing most other emotion.

"She has set up a chase for you, my son. And I know you will follow her."

"I will not," returned Peter stridently. "And if that is what she expects, she will not get the expected."

"Oh, my dear son," chuckled his mother, looking at him with her motherly, omniscient stare. "She did not say goodbye to you, and therefore she expects to see you again." She patted his shoulder, which was just another indication of her understanding of him, and then left the foyer, singing as she went farther and farther away.

_How many types of sweet flowers grow  
in an English country garden?  
I'll tell you now of some that I know,  
those I miss you'll surely pardon..._

The song triggered a lost memory in the boy's head, and without even knowing it, he walked towards a window in a neighboring room and stared out of it, seeing nothing but the curtain of raindrops draped over the countryside. Further down a muddy, obscure roadway sat a woman in a carriage, constantly looking out the window in the back of the coach, with no real reason as to why her eyes had grown fond of looking over her shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

_Dances and laughter  
Secrets kept inside  
Away from one who wants nothing  
But the will to at last decide…_

**N**ot far away stood two children, both of them bleary-eyed and dripping wet. One shivered with crossed arms, her upper-lip tinted with a chilly bluish hue and her dark eyes burning with anger. Beside her stood the other child, his clothes darkened by the frigid water that had soaked him, and his brown hair was matted to his forehead, covering his eyes from their interrogator.

"Explain yourselves," demanded the questioner, the words forced through a taut mouth. The examiner tapped her foot impatiently on the ground, and the fan in her hand was consistently being opened and then snapped shut with every silent second that passed by.

"_Sisterrr…_" she growled; the fan smacked to a close as her fingers circled around it in a choking grasp.

The little girl blinked repeatedly at the inquisitor, trying her best not to cry in front of "the Queen," but her royal highness was far from being persuaded.

"Peter pushed me into a puddle," said the little girl quietly.

"You pushed me back!" yelled the boy in reply.

"You pushed me first!"

"Silence!" shrilled the Queen. "You _ignorant_ little children. Firstly, I told you both _not_ to leave the house. Secondly, I told you _no_ horseplay either. You've broken both of the rules, and mother will be home in an hour! And thirdly, _Harriet,_ this boy is your _guest_!"

Harriet snorted at the scolds. It wasn't her fault. Peter pushed her into the puddle. She said she'd jump in for fun, but then she cowered and Peter, according to him, "accidentally" pushed her on impulse. But Harriet would have never accepted such lies. She knew Peter shoved her into the puddle because of her cowardice, which she believed he should have understood and respected, but no. Peter had to be inconsiderate and make Harriet do what she didn't want to do in the first place. But, she _did_ say she would jump into the puddle. She just didn't want to jump in _that_ way.

"You should have kept a better eye on us then, your Highness," retorted Harriet with a face to go with it. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before stomping off, leaving a trail of muddy footprints down the hallway.

"The Queen" was _furious_.

"_You come back here you little wretch! Or I swear, by God, I'll have your maid scrub you so hard during your bath that your skin will fall off!"_

The boy watched older sister chase after younger, and the anger he once felt gradually flowed away. He might have been cold, wet and half-covered in mud because of _accidentally_ pushing Hattie into the puddle by_mistake_, but the trouble his dear friend had carelessly put herself into at times was too entertaining to pass without a smile.

Harriet watched in wonder at the couple sitting in the corner of the living room. In the woman's arms was a round little bundle, which giggled and blabbered every now and then. Both the woman and her accompanying man would coo and laugh in reply, and Harriet was finding it hard to accept that that woman was her sister, the infamous "Queen."

True, she had not seen her sister in a few years, and yet here Mrs. Bridget Claribel Drake sat with her husband, cradling a healthy baby girl in her arms. And more so, acting civilly to a child. It almost seemed like yesterday that "the Queen" was chasing her around the house for going outside in the rain with Peter and splashing in muddy puddles while their parents were away.

Finishing school did indeed _finish_ stubborn girls into the most tame of creatures.

"What is her name, sister?" asked Harriet, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

"Abigail," praised Bridget, looking up and smiling broadly. Harriet took notice of her sister's rosier and rounder face, which then in turn gave "the Queen" the gentler appearance to go with her kinder persona. It was a large contrast to her own bony, thin grayish countenance, and she wondered if she too would become calmer and more cheerful as soon as she married Red. She doubted it, but then again, she never thought that "the Queen" would ever look at her with anything but a glare.

"Is Nicholas still in school?" said Harriet, looking down at her lap and staring at the unfinished embroidery piece currently being ignored due to her boredom with it.

"Yes. Mother says he is studying very hard to be a physician. You are welcome to visit him at Oxford."

"I wouldn't want to get in the way of his studies at school. I'd just ask silly questions." She paused and honestly couldn't find anything to say anymore. It was as if she didn't know who her sister was. The two had never shared a very close connection and now she regretted it, for now Bridget was the only person she could get news from. Only, she didn't know how to talk to her own sibling. "You said Mother and Father are away, sister?"

"Yes, in Bristol, visiting some old friends of theirs. They should be back in a few weeks. If you came but three days ago, you would have caught them. My husband and I are to mind the house while they are gone."

Inside, Harriet's heart sank and it showed with her slouching position in the armchair she sat in. She would not even have her mother or father to speak to. Just Bridget. Just "the Queen," and her "King" and their little "princess." For a quick instant, she thought about returning to the Calamy residence but she refused the option as soon as it arrived. She'd be able to survive with her sister's family for a few weeks.

_A few weeks… Not hours. Not days. But weeks. Weeks…_she repeated in her head, and she moaned internally. A fortnight wait before her parents returned and three weeks before she saw Red again, and she did not even attempt to wonder when she would see Peter again. She was better off without him plaguing her thoughts.

For as much as Harriet had professed to loathe the weeks with her sister's family, she had survived two weeks so far, usually by just staying out of her sister's way. She let the married couple take care of their child, and she contented herself by spending nearly half her day outside, walking around and talking to the autumn air. The bitter atmosphere eventually did her well, and the slightest hint of pink was beginning to become more apparent on her grey countenance.

On one surprisingly mild fall day, she sat by her revived rose garden in the backyard of the house, her fingers weaving through the grass around her. The sky was shockingly blue and free of any cloud, thus leaving the bright sunlight to fall directly to any grinning face, and Harriet relished the warmth of the golden rays, for the air still remained a bit cool, though not too chillingly cold to ruin a beautiful day.

Beside her lay a rose just newly plucked from the neighboring bushes, and she picked it up and dangled it over the beaming little baby lying in her lap. Abigail's chubby little arms reached out to grab the bright crimson flower, and Harriet let the soft petals tickle the child's round nose. The babe only paused and sneezed, and Harriet giggled, setting the rose back on the ground and wiping the baby's face with a handkerchief.

"Perhaps roses are not your flowers," she commented, carefully lifting the baby into her arms. "Your mother is a rose… or at least, she _was_ a rose." The baby's large blue eyes stared back at her in utter confusion, and Harriet related the eyes to those of Peter's—wide, understanding, puzzled and… _innocent_.

At the connection, Harriet's sun-covered face turned somber, and she veered her head away from the streaks of the sun and to her shadow lying on the grass. She had expected Peter to come after a few days to check on her, but two weeks away and he still had not come. Perhaps he had finally let go of her, or perhaps he was caught up in his duty as a navy man again, which she thought typical of him; to put duty before family and friends, and that observation removed her anguish and she returned to the sun and to the awed gaze of Abigail Drake.

"Shall we go in and get you fed, eh, Abby?" said Harriet, getting up on her feet and transferring the child to her hip, bouncing her a bit as the child began to suck on her little, fat thumb. "Your mother and father will be home soon. They went to escort your grandmother and grandfather home."

The only reply Abigail gave her was the soft slurping noise coming from sucking her thumb. That, and a rub of her head on Harriet's shoulder as she tried to get comfortable in the young woman's unfamiliar arms. Harriet smiled at the action and understood very well the joys of being a mother. Motherhood made her think of her fiancé, and she was delighted all the more with the fact that Red would come back to her in a week's time.

The anticipation excited her all the more and she took one last look at the child and laughed before sprinting the rest of the way to the house, leaving a bouncing baby ecstatic from the thrill.

It was the sound of carriage wheels that lured Hattie to take a peep through the window curtains and away from a napping Abigail on the couch in the den. Pulling back the drapes, she scanned the front lawn for any visitor, glancing at the driveway for any approaching coach. She found none, but the sound remained, and she found it her duty to attend to the occasion of the arrival of guests.

After calling for a maid to mind the baby in the den, she scurried to the front doors and opened them.

"Miss," began the doorman, trying to keep her from stepping outside, but it was far too late. Harriet was already running towards the driveway.

She stopped as a carriage rode in, hauled by four horses, and she could already guess who was riding inside the vehicle. A grateful smile stretched on her lips and her dark eyes shone in the bright sunlight as she waited beside the pathway for the passengers to exit.

As she heard the coach door open, she slipped her foot behind the other and bent her knee in a smooth, low curtsy, remaining in that position until she was spoken to.

Mr. and Mrs. Neville stepped out of the carriage and were greeted by the sight of their youngest and most unruly daughter, and such a surprise caused the missus to take a step back and lay a hand to her chest, happily awed by the action. Her husband, in turn, grinned broadly, pleased that Harriet had made great progress since he had last seen her.

"Rise, Daughter," he said, and Harriet obeyed instantly, rising until her back was perfectly straight and her face had assumed the passive appearance once again.

"Welcome, Mama, Papa," replied Harriet, coming forth to accept the usual greetings from her parents; a kiss on both sides of her face and perhaps a brief embrace. "How was your stay in Bristol? I hope the ride home did not trouble either of you much."

"Bristol was a breath of fresh air," remarked Mr. Neville, the corners of his eyes wrinkling from his gladness. "But to see you home is an even better." The girl smirked faintly at that, partly thinking that it was just spoken as a lie to flatter her, and partly believing that it was actually professed with an honest heart.

Surprisingly, her father never became too disappointed with her impropriety as a child, and often he had to calm her mother out of her frustration. However, he did not always let her get away with everything. If she was guilty of a worse crime, he'd sometimes have to arrange a meeting with the rod, which simply meant that he'd cob her about twice and then sigh and shake his head as she'd run up to her room and weep about the unfairness and cruelty of getting whipped.

Harriet noticed more strands of white and gray in her father's short hair and bushy sideburns, but his clear eyes remained young and spirited, a contrast to her mother's brown and seemingly mournful façade. And, judging from the additional creases etched onto his face, she understood that the past three years had aged him considerably, most likely because of her being away, her brother being off at school and "the Queen" getting married and starting her own family.

"Shall we go in?" asked Harriet, but as soon as she had asked the question, her mind was suddenly captured by a second carriage that pulled into the driveway, and her curiosity was sparked. "Who followed you, Father?" she inquired, her feet itching to abandon her post and see who it was for herself.

"I believe you know them quite well, already, Hattie," answered Mr. Neville, looking back at the newly arrived coach as well. Mrs. Neville though, found that there was no need for her or her husband to be present at the meeting between Harriet and the new guest and so took her husband's hand and gently pulled him towards the house.

"We shall leave the doors open, Daughter," she said as she walked away, but Harriet barely heard her words. The door to the coach had opened and out stepped the young man she had wondered about so greatly since she left Portsmouth.

"Red!" she screamed, flying forward and meeting him at such force that they fell onto the dirt roadway.

"Harriet," he chuckled, amused with her welcome. Taking her beaming face in his hands, he kissed her lightly before sitting up and helping the young woman to her feet.

"I thought we were supposed to meet at Salisbury in a week," said Harriet, looking up at him and then realizing the dust on his shoulders put there because of the fall.

"Well, so did I, but I've caught up with my studies and I didn't want to waste a week in Portsmouth by myself." Harriet giggled as she brushed the dirt off his shoulders.

"Then I am absolutely glad that you have come early," she replied, embracing him and releasing a sigh. "If it weren't for such lovely weather and my niece, I think I'd have gone mad with the boredom."

He laughed merrily and drew her close to him, taking her hand in his own and bringing it up to his lips. She met his gaze and admired the golden glint in his green eyes and the oddest, yet most intriguing, effect of pure sunlight on his dark red hair. It looked like fire to her and she reached up and ran a hand through his soft locks. _Like fire, _she thought,_ but not; burning and warm at sight, yet…_She pulled his face towards hers as their lips met feverishly…_cold at touch._

Bridget and her husband arrived shortly after Red did, as they had escorted Mr. and Mrs. Neville back home, and "the Queen" was elated to be reunited with her baby. Grandmother and grandfather were overjoyed to see their first grandchild and happily greeted the babe with numerous kisses and embellished compliments.

"She looks just like your sister," commented Red as the couple sauntered through the gardens in a frigid night environment. Supper had just been eaten and Harriet and her fiancé had taken up the habit of walking outside together for a short time after the last meal of the day. Neither of them understood why the practice had become routine, but they did treasure the time they spent alone together, free to talk about whatever they wished.

Harriet inhaled a large breath as she clung tighter to his arm. "I suppose she does," she replied, casting her eyes up at the clear, black sky. The silver stars were heavily apparent in the vast, dark mantle, but for all their abundance, the light they emitted was weak.

"I fancy that you had a good time taking care of her then," said Red, bending his head to the side to meet the awed gaze of Harriet as she faced the distant heavens.

"I adored every minute of it," she smiled, looking back at him. "Surprises me how much of a blessing children are."

"Surprised? You would make a fine mother, Harriet," praised Red, grinning at her with utmost hope. The smile resulted in Harriet gaping openly at her fiancé, only to burst into a lighthearted laugh.

"Now, don't you get any ideas, Mr. O'Cleirigh," she playfully chided. "Need I remind you that I am still in school?" At that, the young man chuckled willingly, looking down at the ground with a smirk still fixed to his lips and with a faint shade of pink across his cheeks.

He honestly loved that side of her, the side that displayed her blithe spirit that always seemed so restrained in a cheerless body. Her witty teases grew rare as she aged, and he constantly recollected her dynamic self five years ago, as she was so merry back then. Every day she smiled. And now, he would consider himself lucky if he had succeeded in making her laugh.

It was her scowl that moved him out of his thoughts and back to the silver night. "Oh, it seems to be getting colder," moaned Harriet. "I'd like to go back inside, my dear."

"Let us go then. I would not want you to catch cold," he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her smooth, icy cheek.

"Indeed."

She leaned against him as they walked back to the house, closing her eyes in the process. She had been shivering from the cold for a great length of time, but she did not want it to be known to him, for she knew how much he enjoyed taking the walks outside. And so she kept as close to him as possible, absorbing any warmth off him that would keep her from turning blue.

But her refusal to be honest with her fiancé, to tell him that she felt ill and frozen from the chill of colorful autumn, was something she could not help doing. She did not want to reveal any weakness to Red, for she would be his future wife. What man would want a spiritless, witless, and powerless girl? None. And so she had to prove to him now that she would be willing to do anything for him.

And yet, the following morning, Red was alarmed to find Harriet ill, as was her family. Only Harriet understood that she would be ill that morning. And she wanted it to stay that way.

Fall turned to winter, and winter to spring, all of which were seasons that Harriet spent at Godolphin, continuing her lessons as she prepared for her presentation to the Court, which seemed awfully soon, although the ceremony would take place in late June, after her eighteenth birthday.

However, it never went unnoticed to her that Peter had not visited once. Had the boy finally gotten sense into his head and realized that she no longer wished to be acquainted with him? Or was he just mimicking her own aloof actions during their five years apart? Either could have been acceptable, Harriet judged, but she did begin to wonder where he had gone off to. And due to her own timidity, she had written many a letter to her parents to write to the Calamys and see what Peter had been up to.

But she always got the same response. That of which being thus:

Peter Miles Calamy was perfectly well and happy.

Red had come by to visit her often, as often as he could. Though, once again, he was straying from his neglected studies, and Harriet's parents had only consented to their unison if young Mr. O'Cleirigh became a lawyer in time for Harriet's presentation. Surprisingly, neither Harriet nor Red spoke of the upcoming events often. She never urged him to tend to his studies and he never suggested she go and practice her manners. They never even spoke of their wedding, though any bride-to-be would have been stressing over her wedding with the day but months away.

Yet Harriet had other things on her mind. Her friends, for one, were extremely excited for her. And two, she was itching to talk to Peter. Though, she often argued with herself that such a desire was nonsensical and a waste of time, but she could not help but wonder.

"Harriet, darling, what are you looking at?" asked a voice, and still Harriet paid no attention to it. Her embroidery circle sat useless in her lap and her eyes were focused on a window, but more importantly, the _figures_, outside the window. "Harriet?" repeated the person, and at last, the girl's reverie was broken, and she turned to the speaker, dazed.

"What, Olivia?" she answered.

"What are you looking at? Is your handsome beau coming to visit you again?" she teased. Harriet laughed cheaply, setting her embroidery aside and getting up and walking towards the window.

"You really are very inquisitive, Ollie," she remarked, her eyes following the figures to the main entrance of the school building.

"Well, I must be. Otherwise, you will not tell me anything," said Olivia, joining Harriet at the window. And at the sight she saw outside, her red lips took on a mischievous grin of pure delight. "No wonder you were distracted, my dear! Look at them!"

"I prefer not to look at them like _that_," replied Harriet, taking note of Olivia's awed countenance. "Oh, please do not give them that expression, Ollie. They are just officers."

"_Just_ officers, Hattie?" she challenged. "My God, I have never seen such amiable and handsome men in my whole life. And here at Godolphin too!"

Harriet giggled with a shake of her head while Olivia continued to stare admiringly out the translucent piece of glass.

"What are you two looking at?" questioned a new voice, and only Harriet spun around to see who it could be.

"Nothing, Beattie," she said simply.

"What do you mean nothing?" squawked Olivia, her eyes still fixed on those coming to Godolphin. "Beattie, officers are coming and they are all quite a handsome lot."

Beatrice calmly approached the window Harriet and Olivia had positioned themselves at and tiptoed to see above her friends' shoulders. Her dark blue eyes saw exactly what Olivia had described and she smiled to herself silently.

When the long awaited knock on the main entrance arrived, Olivia was the first to whisk her blond head over to the foyer, and the first to actually desert the company of her friends in the drawing room for the main entrance, where many an other girl were congregated.

"Good Lord," sighed Harriet. Beatrice glanced at Harriet and chuckled.

"I suppose it must be a bore to you, Hattie, as you are already engaged to the most handsome man in this area, but let Olivia have her fun," said Beattie.

"As should you," Harriet replied, nudging her friend forward.

Giggling, the two girls joined the others at the foyer, where Mistress Hopkins interrogated the visiting officers. Apparently, one was there to visit a sister and decided to bring some of his friends along.

But as they observed the faces of the young men, Harriet was stricken dumb to find the face of Peter, and although daunted, she did not show it. They merely exchanged glances and spoke not a word.

"Curtsy, girls," ordered Mistress Hopkins, and as if on a cue, all girls present in the foyer took their skirts in their hands and welcomed the officers with the smoothest of greetings, bowing their heads and then rising again in unison.

_All these months and he decides to see me in this way,_ thought Harriet while she stood mute and respectable in the proper Godolphin manner. _The girls will surely tease me of this_. As the officers were escorted to a separate room to speak more in depth with the displeased Mistress Hopkins of their coming, the schoolgirls were fortunate to be greeted personally by a few of them.

There was many a, "Miss Neville," to Harriet, for a future lady of the Court was rarely ever excluded from the gossip of society. But there were many other "Misses" greeted as well. But when Peter came up to her, his face expressionless but his eyes once again portraying his happy feelings, Harriet was obliged to do more than curtsy and nod at him. Without even knowing it, she smiled.

"Miss Neville," he said, bowing to her.

"Lieutenant Calamy," said she, responding accordingly. "Welcome to Godolphin."


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

_Bartered greetings with a kiss  
A calm plea to ease an ill  
Shall begin the change of a heart  
Which will only love at its own will_

**R**ed curtains, rich as wine, were draped over the large windows of the grand room the visiting young naval officers were shooed into at the order of an aggravated Mistress Hopkins. Some of the school girls were permitted to chat with them, as long as a teacher remained in the room to watch that manners were expressed dutifully and that hands remained with their owners.

Young Olivia was unquestionably ecstatic about such an abrupt event to end up on the doorstep of her dreary, dull school, and she relished laughing and speaking with the lads for a good deal of the night. Every laugh she bubbled out excited the blush growing on her fair face and brightened the blueness of her large eyes. Harriet was not surprised that many a lad had gathered around her in hopes of hearing her speak and perhaps enjoy a joke or two with her.

Beatrice, however, was not present in the gathering. Or rather, present she was, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts were absorbed in a book as she sat beside Harriet on a couch, and the latter only pleased herself with nodding at the officers passing by her on the path to Olivia.

But the majority of her attention was captured by Peter, who simply stood right outside the entrance into the room. She noticed that he would pace around a bit and then look back at his comrades in the room, only to turn back around and pace some more. At times, he'd relaxed his feet and lean against a wall as he watched them, but his stare would not be focused on them, or at least, it did not appear to be. He undoubtedly seemed to be in deep thought, but whatever musings he was ever so engaged with were incomprehensible to a bystander's eye, and Harriet, unfortunately, was one onlooker who could not resist imagining what dear Mr. Calamy was doing in that head of his.

And so she called to him, puncturing his process of thought with a needle of sharp curiosity.

Startled, the boy looked blankly at her for a few seconds before surrendering to her wishes and coming to her. Although nothing else succeeded in drawing her away from her book, Beatrice took note of his nearing presence and began to rise from her seat, only to be drawn back to it by Harriet's firm hand.

"But I must," whispered Beatrice, speaking almost as a plea. Young Beattie was painstakingly cautious of her conduct and scolded herself inwardly should she ever break a rule, and Godolphin had always taught her girls to make a guest lavished in welcome, and what other way could that be done for Peter but for her to give her seat to him?

"There is room enough for all three of us to sit, Beatrice," replied Harriet, scooting to the far side of the sofa herself. She gestured for Peter to sit between Beatrice and her and sit he did, nodding with a smile at Beatrice for her politeness and then averting his attention to Harriet's piqued visage, and thus unknowingly making dear Beattie blush behind the pages of her book.

And the same flighty feeling that seemed so apparent in Olivia had now reached Miss Neville's next dearest friend, and Beatrice had such a daze about her head that she rose from her seat anyway and joined Olivia, where she hid her face once again in her book, but she did not read again. She dreamed.

Bunching some pieces of her skirt in her hands, Harriet spoke to Peter, inquiring as to why the young man was even visiting her school.

"We are on our way to Plymouth to meet with one of our commanding officers. One of the midshipmen said that they had a sister at Godolphin and wanted to visit her. So we agreed."

"I suppose the merry midshipman also had an admirer at this school as well, for I find no reason as to why you all would stay so long just because of his sister," remarked Harriet, with slight contempt in her voice. "But I guess that is the case for you gentlemen," she added, smiling thinly.

"I came only because I have another mission to fulfill," said Peter, defending his own serious position. He was by no means there to fraternize in long conversation with schoolgirls, although he did admit to liking their company, but he came for a more solemn reason that he had yet to tell.

"And what would that be, Peter?" questioned Harriet, her face softening a bit. It had been presented, since their conversation started, as grey in comparison to the brilliant, dulcet atmosphere.

Peter hesitated to respond as he looked around the elegant room. Nearly everyone was laughing save for Harriet and him, with the exception of the bored professor watching them all. He looked down for a brief second and then returned to face Harriet's cold stare, except now it appeared as if her icy countenance was at last melting from the warmth of the room.

"I shall tell you tomorrow. We will return to give our farewells for a about an hour or so, and then we shall be on our way."

"Why tomorrow?"

His innocent eyes looked away again, for fear of the inquisitive young lady who had the potential to look at his eyes and find truth.

"Peter?" she repeated.

"I wouldn't want to ruin your night. I shall meet you again tomorrow, Hattie, and my promise will be kept this time." He rose and bowed to her, while she sat bemused in her seat.

It always bothered him to see Harriet confused. She was always known to never be quick at figuring things out, and so he often clarified things for her, and so to see her puzzled so greatly caused his childhood instinct to explain everything to her, but he could not. She would leave the room in a fit of tears if he told her at that moment. It was too soon and he could tell that Harriet was perhaps the only girl in the school who was not so happy about the arrival of a few dashing officers.

A tame draft carried the remote tune of a song thrush to the listening ears of the silent and overbearing presence of Miss Neville, and she stood erect, with her thin arms crossed rigidly over her chest and her eyes monitoring the movements of her fellow peers as they skipped merrily to the melodies blossoming from the delicate combination of notes from a flute and violin.

Her companions were enjoying their dancing lesson in the light, breezy air of a mild spring day, and she was saddened to be excluded from the frivolity, for if any mode of leisure succeeded in releasing her spirit, dancing was the one.

But it was not as if she needed the lesson. She was confident in her abilities as a very accomplished dancer, though her talent would forever be recognized as a leisure activity and never one of occupation. She was to be a lady after all and she had run her course of etiquette that morning and was thus waiting for her fellow visitor to come and speak with her as promised.

She could not manage a smile physically, but she did grin from within as she watched her closest friends dance. Olivia was so pink in the face from the wafts of fresh air, and she beamed at every face with every clever step her feet took her. Beattie on the other hand, bit her lip as she constantly viewed her feet so as not to make a mistake. The girl did fine without the persistent supervision of her tiny feet, but she seemed too stressed over perfection in order to give up the habit.

Olivia made a twirl, her face calming into seriousness as she focused on her dancing, but as soon as she made a slight slip of the foot, and stumbled to the side, she released a laugh, which caused several of the other girls to continue the whirlwind of giggling. To add to the scarlet on her face, the officers from the night before had returned and Olivia spotted them immediately, stepping back with a gasp as her long white fingers jumped to clasp over her open mouth.

She knew for certain that they had seen her almost fall to the ground.

Harriet's head pivoted sharply to the direction of the approaching officers, her face still grim and grey, even in the sunlight. Many of the girls were already curtsying before the men passed by but her stiff knees would not relent to an act until she caught the face of he whom she had waited for.

And as soon as she laid eyes on him, their gazes met.

The new dancing instructor, who was of middle age and married, was understanding enough to let the girls have their fun while Mistress Hopkins was busy with affairs within the schoolhouse, and the throng of incessant prattling, bouncing curls, and scurrying feet moved towards the young men by some natural but intense attraction.

Harriet curtsied just barely as some officers nodded in her direction, and she waited patiently for Peter to come to her, separate from the girls who had flocked among the uniformed, respectable lads. And when he broke away from his own party's assembly to greet her, she curtsied even less for him than she did for the unfamiliar faces that granted her a smile.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said, noticing her aloof and cross demeanor.

"For whatever news you have to bear to me, Mr. Calamy, I find them worth the wait, albeit the fact that this meeting has robbed me of a dancing lesson."

"I apologize then," he answered earnestly, his voice lowering with each word and expressing his deep sentiment.

He looked down, but Harriet did not notice the shift of his eyes and took his arm and led him in the opposite direction of the others, her arm circling around his, which had become a habit that was never broken. As children, he was more than happy to escort her around, with her arm looped in his, and the fact that she did not hesitate to return to such a position gave him some hope in the mission he was performing.

"How are you fairing, Mr. Calamy?" she asked, her eyes on level with the horizon of some distant, sea-green hills.

"Rather well, I suppose, Miss Neville," he said, though he had reluctantly responded, but Harriet observed his tentativeness as a simple sign of timidity, not of a lie.

"So what is this additional task that you have yet to inform me of?" There was a slight musical tone to her question, like that of a lark singing a song that was meant to be true, but was heard as more playful than honest.

She looked at him, seeing now that his blue eyes were on level with where the blue sky met the dark land, and she squinted slightly at him, the sunlight seeping through her eyelashes and brightening her brown eyes.

Her feet continued to move, but Peter had reached a respite accompanied by the short release of a breath that he had obviously held onto. He turned away from the unattainable horizon and met her narrowed eyes with the rather sad hue of his own.

"I come with news from our homes," he began simply, averting his eyes down again, but this time, Harriet caught the movement and she stepped forward swiftly, almost like a restrained leap, in order to make him look up again.

"And?" she demanded. "Peter, you have spoken to me about grave things before; I am positive this is no different."

He was about to protest by raising his struggle to tell her about how he learned of his father's death, but he stopped himself, realizing that he did not come to Godolphin to argue with her.

"Your brother…" he trailed off again, finding it an arduous duty to locate the right words to express what he wanted to say in a manner that would not send Harriet into a fit. "… he has been in an accident. He was riding home with a few of his companions from college and his horse was frightened and threw him off."

Shadows painted the girl's face immediately, and her squinted eyes had opened wide with the bottom edges collecting a ring of water on their rim. Her jaw tensed and she would have clenched her hands and sent a good whack to Peter's face if he hadn't continued talking.

"Your mother was writing a letter to you, but I arrived to tell her what I am about to tell you now, and she decided to let me tell you the news instead." Again, he paused, and he felt his own eyes water as Harriet glared at him blankly, her face hard as stone but her soul cracking.

"My mother is ill," he said, turning away and trying to relax his nerves. "We think it's consumption. How she could have gotten it, I do not know. She has made quite a few trips to the city recently, but a doctor will confirm her illness by the end of the week."

Harriet's fingers were released from the fist and her tight jaw dropped open. Her eyes became less wide and the water trickled down the corners of her eyes, and she looked at him, his face turned away and she wondered with great curiosity and concern over why he had waited so long to tell her such news.

Her fingers found a place on her head and her face began to contort, though the customs of a fine lady were attempting to desperately keep her calm, but even a lady's passive visage could be breeched by the gravest of news.

"Why did you not tell me this last night?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and deadened by the sobs clogging her throat. "Peter, this is awful news! How could you have even dared to say you were fine!"

His immediate defense was unleashed and he whisked his head towards her, the shield of water covering his eyes still blatantly present.

"I didn't want to hurt you in front of all of your peers," he stated. "I knew the information would wound you enough and I would not deepen it by allowing your hysterical reaction to be exposed to your companions."

"But this is your mother, Peter," she quivered, and she knew she could no longer fight her desire to cry. "How could you have left her when she is ill?"

"I told her I would not leave, but she said I needed to go. She said to pursue my duty."

"Your duty is to _her_!"

"She did not think so," he said softly. "Which is why I have come here to ask you something, Hattie."

"What? I will do anything. Anything for your mother, Peter." He was amazed and relieved at her response, believing that she would be less willing after what he had put her through. But perhaps Harriet still loved his family as much as she did long ago.

"Will you go to her? She is alone in that house, save for our servants and I wanted for one of the Nevilles to be there when the doctor arrives. Your mother is occupied with your brother and so would be unable to be the one to go."

"I'll go," she agreed, her voice soft and dampened by her grief.

"I need you to leave tonight, Harriet," he added. She nodded manually, finding the deed necessary but not quite understanding it as it was given to her.

"I'll go," she repeated. She brought her hands together before her and approached Peter, pressing her lips together as she thought. "Will you see me off, Peter?"

"I will try," he replied almost smiling at her for what she was doing for him. She wiped her eyes and sniffed as she made herself presentable to company again. Then she looked at Peter and curtsied low, before rising and hurrying past him, with one hand grasping her skirt as she ran towards the schoolhouse and one hand still wiping the water from her eyes that would not stop falling.

Peter had seen her off, and she had begun the ride back to her home that evening after alerting Mistress Hopkins about the emergency and after hurriedly packing her things. Olivia and Beattie had seen her enter the house with a weeping face, and Olivia went after her while Beattie went to Peter to ask about what happened. And as soon as they were informed, the merry faces they had while dancing, frowned.

Mistress Hopkins was not against the departure, finding that any family crisis was enough reason to have a student leave temporarily. Plus, Harriet was almost finished with her education at Godolphin and so a few weeks away would not do her much harm.

And now Harriet sat in the carriage, a cloak draped over her shoulders as she warmed herself in the cool night air. Although her eyes were dry from her seemingly endless tears, she could not sleep, for her worries prevented the act. She contented herself with the silver light of the moon and the sparks of the stars in the clear night sky, with the faint melody of a nightingale soothing her nerves.

_Mrs. Calamy is ill and Nicholas has gotten in an accident,_ she reminded herself, and she tried to recline on the carriage seat, but she forced herself to stay awake, the apprehension getting the better of her.

Her silence was disrupted with the humming and, consequently, the singing of her carriage driver and she turned around to listen to the song, for its tune was familiar to her:

"_As I was a walking one morning in Spring,  
For to hear the birds whistle and the nightingales sing,  
I saw a young damsel, so sweetly sang she:  
Down by the Green Bushes he thinks to meet me._

_I stepped up to her and thus I did say:  
Why wait you my fair one, so long by the way?  
My true Love, my true Love, so sweetly sang she,  
Down by the Green Bushes he thinks to meet me…"_

Her footsteps echoed in the dim foyer, her hands smoothing out any wrinkles in her skirt as she moved around, her eyes growing reacquainted with the Calamys' empty home. A servant had let her inside, and she waited for Mrs. Calamy's head maid to come down and tell her she could visit the woman.

_Peter said the doctor would be here,_ recalled Harriet, and she made a note to herself to ask the next person she saw about that.

She did not have to wait long to see another face, for a man was making his way down the stairs, carrying a large stiff bag in his left hand and with a small pair of spectacles resting high up on his pointed nose. His hair was short and brown, and his lips were thin and prim. Harriet knew she was not looking at a servant.

"Excuse me, sir," she called out, curtsying briefly before heading towards him. "Would you know if the doctor has arrived? I'm guest sent here by the young Mr. Calamy and—" She was cut off with a calm, polite raise of the man's hand.

"I am Dr. Stephen Maturin, Miss Neville. Your friend has informed me of your arrival and it is quite opportune that you have come at such a time. I have just finished examining Mrs. Calamy." The very large bag he carried now made sense to her, and she scolded herself for not piecing such things together beforehand.

"How is she then?" asked the girl, and the doctor did not speak directly after, his stare having looked away from hers and looking more towards the door, or perhaps a world beyond it.

"She has consumption, just as her son had assumed. It is not as severe as some cases I have seen, but she should still receive plenty of rest and continuous care."

"I'd be glad to help, Doctor. That's why I'm here," she remarked, and he replied with a thin grin.

"Your assistance would be highly appreciated, Miss. Come with me. I must show you what you must do."

He proceeded back up the stairs and Harriet trailed after him, sullen from the diagnosis.

_Consumption_, she thought, _I have heard stories of such an illness. There are rarely any survivors…_ But she stopped her musing from growing. It would only worsen her worry.

When they came to the two doors of Mrs. Calamy's grand bedroom, Dr. Maturin paused and took from his pocket a handkerchief and then reached into his medicine bag and pulled out a small cloth and handed it to Harriet.

She stared at the cloth with raised eyebrows.

"To cover your nose and mouth," explained Stephen. "Mr. Calamy wouldn't want you to get ill as well." She nodded and placed the cloth over her nose and mouth, holding it daintily in place with her white hand.

As soon as the doctor saw her prepared, he opened the door and moved towards the bed where Mrs. Calamy sat, propped up by a few pillows, with a book in her lap. The woman almost burst from the sight of Harriet returning with the doctor.

"Hattie! Dear, come here!" she beckoned, more energized than Harriet had expected. She saw that the doctor had not covered his face with his handkerchief when he entered the room while he had made it an obligation for her. However, she had always noticed as a child that doctors remained strangely unaffected by their patients' sicknesses. She decided not to give up believing that now.

She went to the bed and glanced back at the doctor to see if it was all right if she received a proper greeting from the woman, and he subtly nodded in return. But as she got closer, Mrs. Calamy exclaimed, "Oh no, dearie. A curtsy would suit for a fine greeting." So Harriet bowed low, with her foot gliding smoothly behind the other and then rose again.

"How are you, Mrs. Calamy?" she inquired.

"A bit hot," replied the woman, "But not too awful. I've gradually felt better over the days since Peter left. I did not know you were coming."

Harriet processed the last sentence in her head, confused over the words. Hadn't Peter had told her?

"Mrs. Calamy, didn't your son tell you he was coming to get me?"

"Oh no, Hattie. He simply said that he would be back soon. He mentioned no one's arrival to me."

"How odd," murmured Hattie, more to herself than to her friend's mother.

"But thoughtful, you must admit," added Mrs. Calamy, having heard Harriet's remark. The girl was caught off guard and laughed nervously in reply.

"Yes, I believe so. I shall be here until Peter returns. It is what he asked of me." She noticed the widening eyes of the older woman and spoke before she could be told otherwise. "And I know you would have wanted him to tell me just to visit, but I understand that…" Her voice softened with an admission, "… that he has done much for me, and it is about time I return the favor."

The rest of that week closed on a sour note. On a perfectly sunny, spring day, Mrs. Calamy's condition had suddenly grown considerably worse and the doctor was called for again, leaving Harriet fretting over the dear woman's health for a few days before he arrived. Her fever had pitched and the coughing became more abundant, with added potency. The coughs had become so forceful that Harriet hated to hear them from afar, for it indicated that Mrs. Calamy was in her room alone and struggling.

And therefore the girl resolved to stay in the room with her, a cloth tied around her face in the belief of it preventing illness. She understood very well that she was susceptible to all types of pathogens, for she had often gotten sick during her childhood. But what she was doing was for the sake of a woman loved by many, and if her efforts proved worthwhile, then she wouldn't mind being consumed herself.

A startling _hack_ made Harriet jump from her seat across the room and rush towards the bedside of Mrs. Calamy. The woman coughed uncontrollably, the barks increasingly raspy and dry, and Harriet went to pour a glass of water from a pitcher that always sat at a table in the room for the lady's use. In the meantime, she handed Mrs. Calamy a handkerchief to cough into while she prepared the water.

She relaxed when she heard the coughing subside and came back to the bedside with the glass of water in hand, only to find Mrs. Calamy looking at the handkerchief in her hands. Harriet knew something was wrong.

"Mrs. Calamy?" she asked, leaning forward. And then she saw what the woman was looking at. A spot of blood was on the clean white square of cloth. "Drink this, Mrs. Calamy," said Harriet hurriedly, panic rising in her veins. "The doctor will be here soon."

_Please let him come soon, please,_ she pleaded inwardly. _Please…_ _Oh, Peter, why did you leave your mother? She needs you…_

Day turned to night, and night into day, and the cycle did not end for quite some while. During the doctor's visits, Harriet would leave the Calamy residence temporarily to visit her brother. His condition was far better than Mrs. Calamy's and he simply hobbled about on some crutches to move around while his broken leg healed. And due to his injury, he spent much of his time idle to continue his studies even if he was not at school.

But when Harriet was not at home, she was burdened by the condition of Mrs. Calamy's terrible illness. It had progressed and she had not said a word for days. The poor woman was probably exhausted from the battle her body was fighting against the sickness. And her own son was not even there to comfort her.

But then came a day when a letter arrived from afar, and it addressed to Harriet. It was in Peter's hand and in his writing he announced his decision to come home soon and to tell the news to his ailing mother, which Harriet happily agreed to.

And so around the time Peter had said he'd arrive, Harriet sat in a sofa with a direct view of the windows at the front of the house, with the curtains drawn back and letting the bright sunlight break through the glass barrier and flooding the room in a pale yellow radiance. Although a book lay open in her lap, her eyes had barely even read a page in a half hour. She would always wander towards the window, waiting for the sound of horses' hooves or the frame of a carriage coming into aspect.

Even if she found her anxiety childish, she knew she did not wait in vain, for soon enough, the sound reached her ears faintly and the coach became fully visible from the window. She stood up immediately and recollected her orders from Mrs. Calamy. When the woman did have the strength to speak, she told her what to do when Peter arrived, and Harriet was bent on completing her mission, just as Peter had completed his when he visited her at Godolphin days ago.

The knock came, followed by the door opening at the doing of the doorman, and Harriet presented herself to Peter with a genuine smile of relief. She curtsied to him with no hesitation, and he did not expect her to do so for him. He was even ready to speak when she cut into a curtsy and rose to face him.

"Your mother is glad you are back, Mr. Calamy," she said, her smile broadening. When she neared him, she tiptoed up and kissed both sides of his astounded face, and the boy was regretful to say that his face had grown hot after the action.

"That's from your mother, Peter." She noticed the wide, blank expression displayed in his clear eyes and understood that she had carried out Mrs. Calamy's orders a bit _too_ passionately.

But she was never unaware of the own warm sensation left on her lips after kissing the smooth face of her old friend. The feeling remained well after she had brought Peter to his mother, and she began to wonder if she too was now hot in the face.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

_Sent away for sake of regard  
But confronted by a storm of fear  
And wild accusations permitted  
To wound the ones most dear…_

**I**f he had ever felt awkward around her before, he certainly felt discomfiture at its best as he sat across from her at the dining table, his eyes oddly concentrating on her restless hands. She was dressed elegantly in a midnight blue evening gown, with a neckline rimmed in gold thread and the high waistline of her dress circled with a wide ribbon of matching color.

He blinked and was reminded of why the two of them were gathered together and looked up to face her, but her head was turned to the side, her eyes wandering around as she examined the room out of boredom or impatience, which was very much like her to do so. To resist being idle even in dull situations.

Clearing his throat quietly, so as not to catch her too off guard, he said, "Hattie?"

Her head pivoted to him instantly, her eyes wide and stunned at the intrusion, but her tight face soon relaxed into a weak smile and her restless hands took hold of the food utensils lying before her before she answered him.

"Yes, Mr. Calamy?"

"I give you leave to go back to your home or back to Godolphin. I won't be leaving for some while and so I'll be here to take care of my mother." He tried to state it as gently as possible but without sacrificing too much of the firmness he still wanted to attain.

"Oh," came Hattie's meek, squeaky reply. She poked uselessly at the plate of food in front of her and she laughed miserably. "Well, I suppose it's common sense for me to leave, right Peter?" she continued, really not expecting him to reply. She knew the answer already. Of course it was logical for her to leave. But she didn't quite understand why she had a tinge of the feeling of wanting to stay.

"I am still eternally grateful for the service you have done, Hattie," added Peter, noticing her forced grin. "You are welcome to visit any time you want."

She nodded subtly.

Even if she did not comprehend some things as quickly as others, she still knew very well what Peter was saying. She didn't believe his gilded words for one moment, and she felt her anger build up again but she bit her tongue in order to keep the aggravation from popping out in words she knew she'd regret later on.

"Will you… excuse me for a moment, Peter?" she asked as her storming thoughts eventually settled on a resolution. If she stayed one moment longer in Peter's presence, she'd lose control over her emotions.

At once, he took her question as a negative reply to what he had said to her, and he urged her quickly to sit back down.

"I didn't mean it like that, Harriet. I—"

"Of course you didn't," she lied, forming a faux smile on her lips and about to rise from her seat again.

He stopped her.

"Harriet, please," he implored, about ready to get up from his seat as well so that he could be prepared to run after her should she dart out of the hall. "I'm sorry. I'm not driving you out. I just thought…"

His apology eased her temper and she hesitantly fell back into her seat, her eyes watching him coolly. "Though what?" she finished.

"Thought that you _wanted_ to leave." She released a sharp sigh, insulted by what he had said and shot out of her seat more angrily than before. Peter shook his head at himself internally for saying the wrong thing to her once again, and he wondered why he would even dare to try to hurt her unintentionally. He should have known that this new Harriet took things quite personally.

"Harriet!" he called, abandoning his seat and going after her. "Stop, please. Why do you—" He realized he was talking aloud and cut off his question before she became even more annoyed with him, but she heard it and spun around, her rigid face cross and bitter.

"Why do I what?" she demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," murmured Peter hurriedly, keeping his voice soft to show that he intended her no harm at all, but again, her reaction moved him to chastise his supposedly thorough understanding of Miss Harriet Abigail Neville.

"Stop lying to me. What were you going to ask?" she yelled, her shrill voice echoing in the silent home.

_Please her or tell the truth?, _debated Peter, glancing at her for less than a second before shifting his eyes to the floor. _Tell the truth..._ He met her eyes again, the repentant expression on his visage changing into one of full seriousness.

"Why do you always make me run after you?" he asked earnestly. Harriet did not anticipate his question and was taken aback by such a thought. _Why?_, she thought to herself. And after seeking her mind for reasons, she discovered that she had no reason to give.

"I…I don't _make_ you run after me, Peter," she said, her voice minutely trembling. "You just always follow. So perhaps the question you want to ask is why do you always choose to follow?"

He looked down and thought about her response, ending his evaluation with a smile that troubled her.

"Or perhaps the question is, why do you always run away?"

She did not expect that comeback either, and she scowled at him with taut lips and narrowed eyes before pivoting sharply on her heel and running away from him again. And he let her go that time.

The night was relatively late, and the house was even more silent, with rarely a sound disrupting the heavy quiet, except, perhaps for a few anxious footsteps.

Harriet paced in the parlor, a wine glass in one hand and an opened letter hanging in her other. The effects of the wine had flushed her pallid cheeks, but her brows were still knitted with agitation and serious uneasiness. And more baffling was that she mumbled words to herself.

"A cloud was my mother… father was the wind… son is the stream…" She looked back at the letter in her hand and peered at it viciously, her nose almost gliding against the paper as she read what she was seeking. And after finding nothing of use, she took a swig of her wine and tossed the piece of paper over her shoulder, letting it fall gently to the ground like a leaf in autumn.

With a sigh, she sat on a sofa and continued to sip at her wine, her eyes all the while glaring at the piece of paper she had so willingly abandoned, but it seemed now that she never wanted to be rid of it at all, for now she could not stop looking at it. And it would only be a matter of time before she'd rise from her seat and snatch up the paper again, reading it just as passionately as before.

Peter had deemed her asleep and at peace in her room, and had passed by her closed bedroom door as he made his way downstairs for a last house check before finally enclosing himself in slumber as well. However, as he neared the last steps of the staircase, he noticed the light coming from the parlor and the incoherent prattle coming from it.

"Harriet?" he dared to ask, nearing the entrance with uncertainty. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to know what she was doing at such an hour.

At the voice, Harriet rose from her seat clumsily and turned towards the entrance to the parlor, the letter and wine glass still in her hands.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, her shocked face bending into her common mask of annoyance. "Don't you dare scare me like that!"

"It was not my intent," Peter replied, _as was every other time I vexed you_, he added inwardly. But to suppress his own bitterness, he kept off of the subject of useless accusations and asked her what she was doing.

"It's my brother's letter," she explained, showing the paper to him as she snuck in another gulp of wine while Peter examined the paper. "He loves to play games me with and he wrote a riddle in his letter which I am determined to solve. However, I have not been able to solve any of his puzzles in my lifetime. He always had to reveal them to me."

Peter glanced at her, smiling as she filled herself with the mellow ruby liquid and then returning the letter to her as he took a seat on the sofa. He said nothing to her and merely stared at the wine bottle she had resting on the small table in the middle of the room, relaxed and disinterested in her dilemma.

"You have nothing to say?" posed Harriet, more amazed than provoked by his silence. Still, he said nothing, and she sat next to him with a huff shooting from her nose. "Peter."

He gave her his attention, although he had done so without saying a word and she eyed him coolly, wondering if he was up to a very misplaced jest or was entirely serious about his detachment.

"You are an expert at solving riddles, Peter," she said. "Will you help me?"

"It's just a riddle, Hattie," returned Peter. He found her pursuit to solve the puzzle futile. It was just a simple riddle. Nothing important would ever blossom from it, and so he wondered why she wanted to solve it so terribly. What did she see in its outcome that he did not?

"So it is." She looked away from him and looked at the letter hopelessly. "But riddle or no riddle, it is still a problem left unsolved."

"So it is…" murmured Peter, still not understanding her reasoning, but he beckoned for the paper again and she gave it to him. And after reading it to himself again, he read aloud the riddle for both of them to hear.

"_A cloud was my mother,  
The wind is my father,  
My son is the cool stream,  
And my daughter is the fruit of the land.  
A rainbow is my bed,  
The earth my final resting place,  
And I'm the torment of man."_

"Any ideas, Peter?" asked Harriet, making no attempt to solve it but relying on his input only.

"It's rain," he stated simply. "Rain comes from clouds, and wind bears it everywhere. It fills the streams, and nourishes the earth, and—"

"I considered that," interrupted Harriet abruptly. "But 'torment of man'?"

"Tears, Hattie. When Man is tormented, he sheds tears." She smiled and her closed, curling lips eventually parted into a full grown laugh and she laughed lightly, almost child-like, and Peter questioned her incentive for such random gaiety.

"Not all men," she said as her giggles died down. "Not you."

He wondered if her remark was a compliment or insult, it could have gone either way with her resentful personality, and he decided that to ask what she meant by it would only stop her laughs, which he enjoyed far better than her scolds.

"Really, Hattie? You find that so?" he sighed, folding up the letter and handing it to her as he rubbed his head. The night was late and he could feel a yawn wrenching his mouth open.

"Of course," she chimed, still grinning. "I have never seen you weep. You did not cry when we were children and you do not cry now. Nothing has changed for you."

Peter continued to rub his forehead in the hopes of keeping his eyes open at the action.

"Indeed," he answered softly before standing, bidding the lady good night and then heading up the stairs for the period of rest he longed for.

In the morning, Harriet prepared for her inevitable departure from the Calamy home and was ready to leave before the sun had even risen to clear away the dull, thin grey sea of fog encompassing the wide, brisk countryside. She had thought about her conversation with Peter, even if she had been partly inebriated and thus somewhat incapable of truly comprehending honest banter, and wondered if her perceptions of him were even in the least bit correct. She did not know if he wept at all for any reason, and she wasn't entirely certain if she'd like to know that he did. Did he cry when he learned of his mother's detrimental illness?, she pondered. Or had he remained fully composed? Acting and appearing just fine when in truth, worries overwhelmed his mind?

She tossed such thoughts away as she examined herself in the mirror, her fingers itching to rearrange her hair, although a maid had perfectly fixed it for her. She noted her pale face with a frown on her thin lips and then poked a finger into her sallow cheek. Such sudden self-consciousness forced her to think of Red, and she realized that she had been away from him for some while.

"I think I shall write to him," she decided, stuffing the last items on the vanity into her reticule and then promptly exiting the room. Her luggage was already loaded onto the carriage and expected to leave quickly and silently, with the wish that her time spent in the Calamy home would pass as nothing.

However, her dishonest wish could not be granted as long as Peter knew that she was in the house. He found that he spent much of his time thinking of what she would do next and why she would do it, and in a way, such a process enabled to him know her better, even if she wasn't exactly engaging in any bonding event between the two of them.

And so, upon reaching the end of the staircase, Harriet was disturbed to find Peter waiting for her, fine and neat even in civilian clothing. "Good morning, Miss Neville," he said, nodding at her.

"Good morning, Mr. Calamy," she replied, just as equitably. "I did not know that you would see me off."

"I find it my duty to make sure you are sent home safely, Harriet," he replied earnestly, offering her his arm as they made way towards the front door.

She took it timidly, finding the formality slightly unnerving but acceptable at the same time, and when Peter had brought her to her carriage, she slipped her arm from his and felt a drastic change in temperature close around her arm. Her body suddenly felt cold.

"Thank you, Peter," she said softly as she was helped inside the coach. "Nicholas will be happy to hear that I have at last understood one of his silly riddles, with your help of course."

"I hope his recovery is quick. Tell him that I give my greetings," said Peter, nodding at her as the coachman prepared to shut the door.

"Come visit m—_us_, Peter. My mother would love to see you," Harriet fumbled out hurriedly, not realizing that she had stuck her hand out of the carriage window as she addressed him.

"When my mother is well, I give you my word that I shall come visit you." He gave her a faint smile before he squeezed her hand and then nodded his approval of departure to the patiently waiting coachman.

Harriet was welcomed home warmly by her family, receiving kisses and hugs from her mother, father, sister and brother. Nicholas was still limping around the house with his crutches as his leg continued to heal, and Bridget would not leave with her husband and newborn child until she had learned every lesson in mothering from Mrs. Neville. Harriet did not find her sister's company as bad as she had thought it would be. She delighted in watching over little Abby whenever Bridget and her husband had other matters to attend to, and she and Nicholas worked together to make sure that Abigail Drake's plump little face always remained smiling.

She had received a letter from Red, and a few others from Olivia and Beatrice back at Godolphin, and from the notes she learned that Red was occupied with his studies. However, Olivia had mentioned in her letter that he had visited Godolphin on a few occasions and that he had a splendid time chatting with the school girls whenever he stopped by. Beatrice had subtly inquired about young Mr. Calamy, and Harriet could not help but smile and giggle at the letters. She longed to go back, but she decided to stay at home for a bit longer, feeling inclined to wait for the one thing she had secretly longed to happen.

She replied to all of the letters, finding the actual process of telling her friends about her doings relaxing and enjoyable, which was a lovely contrast to her previous despair in the weeks when she cared for the ailing Mrs. Calamy. She was glad to learn, however, based solely on the talk around the neighborhood, that Peter's mother was recovering slowly, and that she would soon be well enough to mind the house again.

Weeks passed and although Red, Olivia and Beattie had all answered Harriet's letters, Harriet continued to decline their wishes for her to return to Wiltshire. Red had mentioned a possible visitation in the near future, but his words were not certain, and Harriet began to wonder what he was so occupied with so that he could not even be with her for one day. Surely he was not engrossed in his studies to such an extent that he failed to acknowledge her. If he had enough time on his hands to visit Godolphin and her friends, then surely he could afford a week or two away to be with her at home. However, she soon realized that her thoughts were just as disagreeable. She was not compelled to stay at home any longer. Peter had returned to care for his mother and all she did at home was play with Abbie and talk with Nicholas. She had more than enough freedom to leave, but still she chose not to. Perhaps she'd wait until Red, Olivia or Beatrice decided to come visit her before she went to them. She seemed to like that idea better anyway.

And for once, she was surprised to find her hopeful wishes come true.

Young Mr. O'Cleirigh had put it upon himself to visit his wife-to-be using the element of surprise. And for added effect, he invited her dearest friends, Olivia Kersey and Beatrice Prescott, to accompany him on the way there. Harriet, entirely oblivious of their arrival, had uttered a shrill squeal when the doorman had summoned her down to the foyer and she spotted her fiancé standing in the door way, grinning broadly at her.

She met him quickly with an embrace and then shrieked some more, all still in his arms, when she saw Olivia and Beattie come forward. In her bewilderment, she slapped playfully at Red's arms, demanding to know why they had decided to startle her in such a way. Of course, the aspiring lawyer happily replied that if they were to announce their coming, she would not be even near the amount of joy she was experiencing at that moment. Harriet was forced to agree with him on that, and she agreed most willingly with a tender kiss.

When Mr. and Mrs. Neville heard of their arrival, the couple immediately greeted them with evident hospitality, welcoming Red as their future son-in-law, and beaming at the refined presences of Olivia and Beattie. All of the Nevilles were glad for the new company and it was celebrated with a fine, full dinner, in which the people of the household laughed and talked well into the night, their faces aching from the amount of smiles they gave and their cheeks blushing from the amount of wine they consumed.

As the night had fallen heavy and the call for slumber had pulled at them gently, the merrymaking was put to an end and everyone went their individual ways. And, to Harriet's astonishment, as she made way up to her room, Beattie timidly posed a question to her about Peter's whereabouts. Harriet blushed for her friend.

"He lives right down the street, Beattie. He will visit me soon," she said, hoping that the latter would not be a lie. "And I shall introduce you to him properly." The two girls shared a few twitters and giggles at that and then to bed they went. And as Harriet rested her head upon her pillows, she found herself not recollecting the events of that day and evening, but dreaming of what Peter's entrance would be like when he did indeed, at last, decided to visit her.

"I despise the rain," muttered Olivia as she frowned and yanked a thin light blue thread through her embroidery sheet. "If it weren't raining, I'd be riding. Mr. O'Cleirigh has offered to show me around the place since Nicholas is still not well enough to ride again and your father is busy with homely matters."

"If Mr. Calamy were here, I'm sure he would have loved to take you, Ollie," Harriet replied, looping her needle and thread through her embroidery circle with a steady, quick pace. She did not look up at the rain-spattered window that Olivia was glaring at in pauses between her sewing. She focused her eyes intently on the cloth and the pattern.

"Oh, you always insist that your neighbor is coming, but he never comes, Harriet. Has he even written to you?" Harriet glanced up from her work and eyed Olivia coolly, her lips thinning at the remark she had made. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Beatrice, on the other side of the room with her face in a book, raise her head and look in Olivia's direction as well.

"Why does he need to write? We shared our childhood together. He is welcome whenever he chooses to come by. He need not tell me before hand when he will come," Harriet replied defensively, returning to her embroidery.

"As your neighbor, I'd expect for him to visit you far more often," Olivia returned, her tone a bit too curt for Harriet's own comfort.

"Olivia, if you intend on sharing the melancholy of the rain with me, then I must tell you that I shall have none of it. You despise the rain and yet you act no better than it."

"Oh, Hattie," Olivia cooed, setting her work aside. "I did not mean it in that way. I apologize. Forgive me. I am just… tired of staying indoors. I long to go outside."

"I know, I know," Harriet mumbled softly to herself. "We all do."

Red walked into the room, his right hand sifting through several documents gathered in the crook of his arm. He hummed lightly as he took a seat beside Harriet, observing her artwork with a swift shift of his eyes before returning back to the papers in his grasp.

"How are we fairing, ladies?" he asked plainly, not really expecting for any of them to answer, and none of them did. He turned to Harriet and smirked, admiring her profile before leaning forward to kiss her cheek. However, before his lips had even touched her skin, there was a knock on the door, and nearly all three ladies in the room jumped at the sound.

"Who on earth could it be?" Harriet muttered, her arms gruffly tossing her embroidery aside as she rose and headed for the front doors to greet whoever had stopped by. Her parents had left but two days before to escort Bridget and her family back to their home in Bristol and Harriet was left in charge of the house, what with Nicholas still incapable of coming to greet guests at a quick enough pace due to his bad leg.

The doorman crossed her path and promptly told her that a party of men had come to visit, and aggravated by the number of guests, Harriet scowled and stomped into the foyer, only to come face to face with the many figures and faces of eight naval officers.

Her heart stopped and she instinctively pressed a hand to her chest, growing weak at their sight. _Of all things to happen_, she thought bitterly.

She gripped a piece of her skirt in each hand as she dipped a curtsy to them all, her mouth dry and her tongue refusing to utter the words her brain was submitting. Any other type of man she could deal with. But navy men? She had already voiced her fear of them and yet the person to whom she confided such a fear had brought seven others like himself to her doorstep.

"Good day, gentlemen," she quavered, rising and looking from face to face with an increasing frown. "Charles will get your coats. If you will, please follow me to the parlor."

"Harriet? Who's come?" Red called from the den. She heard Olivia giggle in the background. She knew that her dear friend had seen who was at the door.

"Officers, Mr. O'Cleirigh," she yelled in reply, turning back when she saw that her guests had seated themselves comfortably in the parlor furniture. "Will you come and introduce yourself?"

When Red voiced his consent, Harriet approached the navy men with quaking knees and managed to say, "I apologize for the improperness of your welcome. My mother and father are not here. They are accompanying my sister and family back to their home."

"No need to apologize, Miss Neville," said one, a captain, she judged, based on the two golden epaulettes hanging on his broad shoulders. "Lieutenant Calamy has told us of your nervousness among men like us and I assure you that we will try our best not to trouble you."

"Oh," replied Harriet, her voice still shaking by her unease. Her eyes darted over at Peter who looked at her with that same innocent stare and she could not have felt a greater loathing for him than ever before. She questioned how impudent he could be to bring such a burden upon her when her parents were not at home!

Red entered the room, his face immediately brightening at the merry group of men gathered in the parlor. He recognized Captain Aubrey instantly and went to the man, his hand extended for the welcoming handshake. "Good to see you, Captain. Very good. Miss Neville and I will be sure to make your visit her quite agreeable. But what brings you by?"

"I promised that I'd visit Miss Neville," Peter said, rising to greet Mr. O'Cleirigh himself. Red grinned as he shook hands with Peter.

"You must be Mr. Calamy. Harriet has told me much about you."

"We grew up together," said Peter, returning the handshake with a smile. Harriet was almost appalled by the amiable greetings exchanged between her fiancé and her childhood friend. The two acted as if they had known each other longer than she knew either of them and she knew that if she did not intervene, the only thing that would result would be Red staying up all night talking with the men and the visit she had so long anticipated of Peter would fall to ruin.

"Mr. Calamy," she called firmly, unintentionally speaking too loud and allowing for many heads to turn towards her. "A word with you please."

After excusing himself, Peter and Harriet left the parlor and she led him to her father's office where she allowed him to enter first and then shut the door behind them after she had stepped in as well. He stood, straight and still, waiting for her to begin what she wanted to say to him, and she leaned against the frame of the door, her face contorting with fury.

"How could you do this to me?" she shouted. "You know for a fact that I cannot stand in front of a group of men like you and conduct myself in the way a proper lady of the house should. I cannot, Peter. I cannot! And you know that! I told you!"

He said nothing and just looked at her, letting her yells hit him head on without so much as a flinch or change of expression. He simply kept his innocent, but thoughtful stare and absorbed her fierce words without so much as a turn of the head.

"I cannot have you stay in my house, Peter!" she screamed, livid at his aloofness in her frustration. "I want you out! How dare you do this to me? How _dare_ you!" She paused as she collected her breath again, for her reprimands had exhausted her. Her throat ached and she grew slightly red in the face. "And do not say it was never your intent to burden me, Peter," she added tersely, her glare sharpening. "Because it is clear that you brought your comrades here to vex me." Peter could feel that she was about to deliver her harshest accusation and he stopped her before she could utter the words.

"Harriet," he began, shushing her as he came toward her.

"What?" she snapped.

"If you wish us to leave, then I am more than willing to inform my companions of your request. There is no need for you to berate me."

"No need?" she reiterated, her high-pitched voice straining as her eyes blazed. "I have every reason to punish you, Peter!"

"Because I come here under circumstances that you are incapable of coping with? That gives you reason to insult and degrade me?"

"Your inconsideration for my feelings is what I am chastising you for! You know that I am inarticulate when it comes to navy men. I told you that, and still you humiliate me by bringing them here to my home. You stand there as if you have no understanding of who I am."

"Because I do not!" His temper had finally broken and if she would not be willing to cooperate, he would return the aggression. "What kindness have you shown me since my return, Hattie? Scarcely any! You look upon me as a failure and turn bitter at past faults of mine!"

"Did you expect a warm welcome from me, Peter?" she shrieked, trembling from her anger. "I am not one who easily forgives and you will have to do more than what you are doing now in order to have my pardon!"

Peter's eyes instantly widened with a vivid irritation and he looked gravely at her, appalled at her words.

"And you speak as if you have no part in your own agony? Why must you think that _I_ must put an end to this grudge of yours? We are both at fault here, Harriet! I have made many efforts to treat you with respect but you rebuke me for the attempts! If you so wish for our relations to be severed, I will be happy to oblige."

Her mouth had run dry and no more fiery words could find their way out. She simply stood still by the door, glowering at him with such a pure, limpid hatred that her once plain, pale face had changed into one of lively, untamable fury. And what she did next was all she could think of in her swirling mind. She opened the door and ran out, and Peter quickly pursued her. He could not have her run away from him again.

"Harriet!"

"You leave me alone, Peter!" she yelled, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back, and she rewarded his persistence with a sharp slap on the face before fully escaping his grasp.

The vicious '_smack_' which resounded in the quiet hallways reached numerous ears and the effect was universal. Ladies and gentlemen rose from their seats and scurried into the corridor to find some sort of image to explain the sound they had heard, but all they saw was Peter standing by a door that rested slightly ajar, a bright red mark throbbing on the left side of his face.

Red, after coming to the understanding that he and Harriet had argued, asked: "Where is Harriet, Mr. Calamy?"

"She fled," Peter answered, glancing briefly at Red and everyone else before rubbing the sore spot on his cheek.

"What on earth happened?" inquired Olivia. "It takes quite a lot to make Hattie so livid."

"She's just requested that I leave," said Peter simply.

"She's just stubborn, Mr. Calamy. I am sure she did not mean that. That would be highly discourteous of her to drive you out," Red insisted, disbelieving the young naval officer's words. He had known Harriet to be so churlish towards guests. "Where is she? I should speak with her about this."

"I'm not quite certain as to where she went," replied Peter. At that, Red immediately ventured to find his lost, wandering wife and he hurriedly left the company of the others to search for her.

Knowing her, she would not stay in the house after such a fit of unprecedented rage. She'd have sought refuge in the gardens, and so it was there that he went to look for her, yelling out her name in the heavy downpour. His voice had to compete with the incessant patter of the rain and the low rumble of the thunder overhead, and he feared that the storm would drown out his calls before Harriet would even be given the opportunity to hear them. Luckily, his sight was not as unfortunate as his voice, and he found her sitting by the remnants of a rose bush, soaked from head to toe and shaking from her sobs.

"Harriet!" he cried, kneeling down beside her and lifting her to her feet, but she would not budge. She held onto him as soon as she sensed his touch but she would not get up for him.

"I'm sorry," she wept as Red pulled her up. "Please tell him that I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean… I didn't… I didn't…"

"Shh, Harriet," said Red as he held her. "It's all right. Don't cry anymore. Please, my Hattie. I hate to see you weep. Mr. Calamy is still indoors. He can hear your apology still if you come back in now." Even as he nudged her forward but an inch, she recoiled with wail and clung desperately to him.

"He'll never forgive me for what I've done," she said, forcing herself to quiet her sobs. "I find no reason for him to ever speak with me again."

"Let me take you inside at least. You will be ill again if you stay out here a moment longer."

She made no protest and allowed him to lead her back into the house. She even considered getting sick a lucky thing. She wouldn't have to face Peter or his comrades again. However, the more she thought about it, the more she came to know her own cowardice. Her presentation to the Court was nearing and still she could not hold herself in the company of a few naval officers. Her future did not look bright at the moment, and she was determined to change things, but her future, indeed, was grim. The very next morning, she fell ill and the guilt weighed heavy on her, for stuck in bed with a fever would only prolong her apology, and she feared that by the time she was well again, the opportunity to mend her relationship with Peter would be too late.


End file.
